Yearning for Heaven
by Pavlov's Daughter
Summary: Reunited under the strangest of circumstances, Christine and Erik must decide: Coincidence...or destiny? The deepest of questions will be answered if they can overcome their memories and learn to forgive. EC, ALW 2004 & Kay.
1. My Spirit Longs

**A/N: **_Fondest greetings to you all… Welcome to the next adventures of Erik and Christine, written by your loveable author, Bondaged Vampiresa. This is my third phic, ALW 2004 based (but influences from Kay's **Phantom**), a continuation taking place two years after the events at the Opera Garnier (name taken from **Phantom,** not ALW). Here's a quick note about the chapters: The titles will be taken directly from lines from **Phantom,** kind of as a foil to the use of ALW lyrics as my chapter titles for **Joys of the Flesh** (my second phic, Kay-based). This is an E/C phic (as always), but unlike **It's Over,** it is completely fop-... I mean…**Raoul**-friendly. I know, I know…I'm surprised myself._

_**P.S: **As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. To any loyal reviewers who have followed me from **It's Over,** I am eternally grateful for your support. Also, on another note, the phic I just mentioned is nearing 400 reviews (although it is completed). If you have read it but did not submit a review, please do so. I know it sounds strange, but I like the number 400, so it would be wonderful if **It's Over** actually reached that many. Thank you!_

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_Memory- all alone in the moonlight,  
I can smile at the old days.  
I was beautiful then…  
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.  
Let the memory live again._

_**Memory, **Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Cats**_

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_**MY SPIRIT LONGS**_

If it was raining, she did not notice.

Instead, she waited in reserved silence, her eyes sweeping across the creek that dipped and twirled beneath the bridge on which she stood. The last of the sun's rays peeked over the horizon, throwing long, scarlet shadows over her ashen face. The sky, tempestuous yet strangely tranquil in its sublime indifference, seemed to swim and whirl across an ocean of shifting winds. A sigh escaped her lips, and her gaze turned upward towards the heavens. A single, small opening appeared lazily in the now blackened clouds.

She began to hum to herself without realizing it, a chillingly familiar tune of long ago…

The breeze began to pick up, swirling around her head and picking up strands of her deep brunette hair. Its deep moaning sounded like a voice whispering in her ear, and she sighed. Sinking to her knees, she began to unlace her small, simple black shoes, placing them carefully off to the side of the narrow cobblestone road. Using the light cast from the distant silhouette of Lyons, she made her way down to the banks of the trickling stream.

She watched as the subtle glow was reflected off the dark brook, showering her in glimmering pinpricks of light. Tiny leaves and sticks floated past her with sinuous apathy, and she dipped the very tips of her toes into the creek. The water was colder than she expected, and she withdrew her foot in surprise. Smiling at her own cowardice, she returned to the stream, stepping onto one of the larger stones that stuck out of the glasslike water.

She hopped from one rock to another, now laughing to herself out loud. The sound was beautiful…the giggle of mirth escaping the lips of an angel. For a moment she forgot about the poignant, cheerless thoughts that had crossed her mind only minutes before…

"Christine!"

She paused in the middle of the brook, glancing over her shoulder at the approaching horse. A carriage followed not far behind, a small lantern swinging heavily from side to side. Raoul de Chagny stopped by the side of the creek, clutching another oil lamp in his hand, and he slid gracefully off the side of his stallion. He held the lantern above his head, his face a mirror of irritated relief. "Christine…" His feet were planted in the thick brown mud that lined the stream, but he made no move to come closer. "Come on, Christine," he called to her in exasperation. "You could break your neck out there!"

Christine sighed and jumped onto the nearest stone. She paused, glancing at Raoul, then stepped down into the icy water. The chilliness caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end, but she continued to wade towards him, reaching her hand out to him. She felt the waves of liquid ice push against her trembling legs, but she ignored their persistence.

Raoul grasped her by the arm and entwined his fingers with hers, pulling her up to the top of the bank with ease. Quickly he removed his jacked and flung it over her, rubbing the sleeves in an attempt to keep her warm. He closed his hands over her cheeks, running his thumbs over her skin. "What were you thinking?" he asked firmly, leading her up the bank with his hand behind her back. "You said you were merely taking a walk on the grounds…and you promised to be back before the sun set." He spread his free arm out to the darkened sky. "You're a little late, Christine."

After picking up her shoes that lay neglected on the side of the street, Raoul opened the door to the carriage, holding the oil lamp up over her head to guide her step. She turned back to him, a small smile lingering on her rosy lips. "I'm sorry to have frightened you, dear," she said softly, placing a light kiss on his cheek. "It won't happen again."

Nodding, he closed the buggy door, staring into her eyes. "I know it won't. You must try to remember that you're a Vicomtess now, Christine. There are certain things that are expected, and other things that…aren't." He sighed good-naturedly. "Midnight strolls along a brook unaccompanied would be deemed 'inappropriate' by higher society." She nodded guiltily, eyes cast towards the ground. A sigh escaped him, and he picked up her hand in his own, pressing his lips to her fingers. "To hell with higher society, Christine…I just don't want anything to happen to you." She smiled vaguely, and he trailed his fingers idly over the back of her hand. "I'll see you when we get home."

Christine watched his retreating back as he headed for his horse, the smile slowly melting from her face like wax from a candlestick. She leaned her head against the back of the seat, turning her eyes to the dark sapphire sky. The moon appeared in the small hole that floated aimlessly above her, and she watched as it was slowly encompassed by shadows.

As the last half disappeared into the darkness, Christine was struck by how much it resembled a mask…

* * *

"Are you coming to bed, Christine?"

She started from her wandering thoughts, blinking in surprise. Taking one last glance at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she pulled off her lace shawl and draped it over the back of the door before stepping into the darkness of her bedroom. Raoul sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, and he looked up at her with a wide, boyish smile on his face. "I was beginning to think you fell asleep in there, my dear…" He stood from his seat, picking up her hands in his own with an affectionate tenderness. As he held her at arm's length, his gentle eyes trailing over her face, he brought her fingers up to his lips and kissed her delicately on the knuckles. "I thank God everyday for you, Christine," he murmured.

Christine smiled softly, cheeks darkening into an endearing blush. "You spoil me, Raoul."

"And I enjoy every minute of it…" he whispered into her ear, moving his mouth to the base of her jaw line. He placed light kisses down the side of her neck, pulling her closer to him with gentle eagerness. "You are so beautiful, Christine…like an angel from heaven…"

She froze in the middle of his embrace, shocked into silence as he encircled her in his arms. Raoul felt her small frame tense, and he released her, holding her by the arms and staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Christine put on a weak, ghost of a smile and placed her hand against his cheek. "I'm a little tired, Raoul…perhaps we could pick up where we left off tomorrow?" She caught the fleeting look of disappointment as it crossed his face, and she rested her chin on her chest, avoiding his eyes with determined remorse.

He dropped his arms to his sides, nodding vigorously. "Of course…the trip to Mons must have tired you. Look at you…" Raoul tilted her face up with gentle fingers. "…You look exhausted; you're practically trembling." He took her by the arm and helped her into the bed, pulling the covers down to the foot of the mattress and placing a kiss on her forehead. There was something different about his touch then, something Christine could not name but simply _sense_… A moment later it was gone, and she watched with dawning shame as his shadowy outline climbed beneath the blankets beside her.

"Good night, dear Raoul," she whispered so quietly that she doubted he could hear her. He made no response, and within a few moments, she heard his heavy, rhythmic breaths fill the air around them. His back was to her, and she turned to look out the window, her head coming to rest on the soft downy feathers of her pillow. The moon stared back at her with taunting unconcern. '_Damn_ you,' she thought to herself, gazing at the floating silver orb with unfounded frustration and resentment. 'Must you always haunt me…?'

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she drifted to sleep, the tiny drop of water suspended on her lashes.

It did not fall.

* * *

Raoul had come to find that there was a distinct difference in the atmospheres of Lyons and Paris. He could not decide which he preferred: the languid ease of Lyons, with its relaxing breath of cool simplicity; or the rich warmth of the heart of France, it's center for art and physical love…his hometown of Paris. As he made his way down the streets of Lyons, he found himself leaning towards this new city, the place he had brought Christine a few weeks after their marriage. He pulled her a bit closer to him, and she smiled up at him warmly. A young man in a top hat passed them, his eyes lingering on Christine's perfect form, and Raoul laughed to himself. There was not a man in Lyons who had not felt a pang of jealousy towards the young Vicomte, with his exquisite new wife…

"May I ask what is so amusing, Raoul?"

He glanced down at her, the grin on his face unwavering. "Nothing…nothing at all, my dear. Just thinking of a joke Philippe told me once…" He watched her turn her large chocolate eyes back to the sidewalk ahead of them, and with silent awe, Raoul reflected on the fact that even after two years, she still managed to take his breath away with her beauty.

Christine fanned herself with a gloved hand, feeling slightly faint in the warmth of summer. This damned heat was going to be the death of her… She smiled inwardly, imagining Raoul's reaction if she were to voice such profanities. There were many things of which her husband was left unaware… The corners of her lips turned downward at the depth of those words. She turned her face from the sun, a wide shadow encompassing her face. At least her skin would not burn… She fingered the large-brimmed hat atop her head with a mixture of annoyance and gratitude. Raoul had presented her with at least fifteen of these hats, in every color imaginable, only a few days after they arrived in Lyons. _'They're all the rage in Paris, darling,'_ he had said in response to her initial reluctance. _'Humor me…please?'_

And that had been the end of the discussion.

Now, Christine found herself at least a little thankful for his exhausting yet somewhat endearing persistence. She placed one hand over her tightly corseted stomach, fanning herself with even more vivacity. What she wouldn't do for just one cloud to grace the brilliant cerulean sky… They passed a small music shop, and Christine paused for a moment outside the window. The older gentleman behind the counter saw her staring and smiled genially at her, eyes twinkling behind small golden eyeglasses, but she took no notice. Her eyes lingered on an elegant rosewood violin, faultless in its design, beautiful in its eloquence…

In the back of her mind, she heard the distant, bittersweet sound of a bow against its strings, playing a tune not lost to her memory…

"Would you like to go in, Christine?"

She turned her eyes to Raoul sharply. "No," she said poignantly, and he was taken aback by her sudden brusqueness. "No, I have no interest in that store. Music no longer amuses me…it's childish, really." Turning around, she started back down the street, Raoul taking quickened steps in order to catch up with her long, determined strides.

"_Wandering child, so lost…"_

Christine hurried her pace, trying to get as far away from the shop as possible. She heard Raoul's voice vaguely in the background, but she ignored his confused and angry pleas.

"_So helpless…"_

"Christine…?"

She pressed her fingers to her temple, squeezing her eyes shut. A dull pounding had begun to throb relentlessly against her head, like the steady, rhythmic beating of a drum.

"_Yearning for my…"_

"Christine!"

She turned to face him, eyes wide. Raoul took her by the arms and held her up, her lips parted slightly. "Christine, what happened?" She shook her head, clutching her face with her hands. "Answer me!"

His face began to darken with shadows, his voice growing dim against the approaching darkness as the sun's relentless rays beat down upon her. The impending blackness crept into the corners of her sight, and she felt her knees give way beneath her…

Despite the unbearable heat, Christine suddenly felt very cold, like an icy breath had caressed the very essence of her soul.

* * *

"Physically, there's nothing wrong with her, Vicomte. She's a healthy young woman, no conditions with her heart, no weakness of the muscles, no unnatural deficiencies…"

"No baby? She's not…pregnant?"

Raoul could tell the doctor had not missed the note of hopefulness in his voice. The short, balding man frowned and shook his head. "No, I'm sorry Monsieur…she is not pregnant." Raoul nodded, turning to look at Christine as she lay sleeping in their bed. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder, and he turned to find the doctor standing beside him, also staring down at the beautiful creature before them. "Do no worry, Vicomte. You have only been married for two years. Plenty of husbands have had to wait a while for an heir." He placed a tall black hat on top of his hairless head. "You are not alone in your plight."

"Then what is wrong with her, doctor? Women do not just faint on the streets in Paris…I assume it is the same here." The little man before him glanced at Christine before responding.

"Perhaps she was overheated, Monsieur. It was a hot day, and we as men do not know the tribulations of a corset…my wife has often complained of its lack of comfort." He picked up his cane from its place beside the door and turned back to Raoul. "But my wife has been known to exaggerate. Perhaps she is not the best person to ask." Raoul smiled weakly.

"But doctor…" The man raised his eyebrows, acknowledging him. "Could this have been something besides a physical malady? Maybe it had to do with some sort of psychological…?"

The doctor's frown deepened, considering. "It is possible…is she under much stress?" Raoul opened his mouth to answer, but he shut it after a moment, unsure of how to respond. "If so, a vacation might do her well… Does she have any friends with whom she could stay for a weekend? Catch up on old times, forget about the here and the now…?"

Raoul nodded slowly. "Would I need to go with her?"

Shaking his head vigorously, the doctor pulled on his coat and scarf. "No, Monsieur…I would advise against it." He stepped through the doorway without another word.

Glancing out the window, Raoul watched as the doctor climbed into his carriage. He pulled a chair up to the side of Christine's bed and ran his hand over her smooth, pale cheek absently. By his reaction, Raoul assumed the doctor had thought that perhaps _he_ was the cause of Christine's stress, if that was indeed the problem… No matter, he thought distractedly, waving the suppositions aside. He would follow the doctor's instructions despite what the assumed causes were… Raoul rubbed his hand across his narrow chin, sighing inwardly.

Christine would get away from high society, and she would come back refreshed, energetic, and…just as she had been when they had been children. Raoul closed his eyes, remembering those summers in her father's house by the sea. How vivacious and spirited she had been in those days…always full of life, overflowing with innocent joy. Christine moaned in her sleep, and Raoul's eyes snapped open. She turned her face away from him, lips drawn shut tightly, and he realized: He had married a memory. The old Christine was gone, and in her place was a quiet ghost of the girl with whom he had fallen in love.

Perhaps a vacation would bring her back…

He stood from his seat and left the room.

* * *

Finding a way to get in touch with the Giry's had been a challenge in and of itself; luckily, Raoul had kept in touch with enough of his colleagues in Paris to abstract the necessary information. They were, of course, still living in the same city…Raoul had never doubted that. An old friend informed him that the Giry's were living in the outskirts of Paris, occupying a house that had belonged to the Madame's uncle, now deceased.

He had been surprised at the difficulty he found in physically addressing Christine's guardian…he had not actually held a conversation with either Meg or her mother more than twice during his visits to the Opera Garnier. But the real shock had come in the speed in which Madame Giry's reply had arrived back at the de Chagny manor.

When he found the small manila envelope atop the stack of mail not three days after sending his request, Raoul had stared at the letter in mute astonishment for a moment, hardly believing his eyes. Quickly he took the note into his study and shut the door.

He had not informed Christine of his intentions…half of him wanted to present Christine with a pleasant surprise, and the other half assumed she would reject his purposes if he told her ahead of time. Raoul slipped the dull point of his letter-opener into the crack of the envelope and eased its way down to the other side. Extracting the note from its pocket, his eyes skimmed the lines of Madame Giry's impeccable script. Yes, Christine was welcome in their home…no, she would not be an inconvenience at all…no, she did not need to bring any money with her, she would be taken care of like a daughter…

Raoul hesitated before reading the last section of the letter. He had been unsure of how to word his questioning, so in his correspondence he simply asked (quite bluntly): Had she had any contact with Christine's old tutor? _None_ was the curt response. The Phantom was presumed dead, and all police investigations had been halted only a week after the first and last performance of _Don Juan._ Raoul read and reread those lines, feeling a small burden lift from his shoulders. Now there would be no hesitation in his sending her to Paris. _Only for a few days, _he told himself silently as he stood outside her door.

_Only a few days…_

"Christine…?"

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**A/N:**_ Yes, I know, there was a severe lack of a slightly important character in this chapter…I don't think I even said Erik's name once in the whole thing. Well, I said it there. Erik Erik Erik Erik. There you go…just to tide you over._


	2. This Shadowed Path

**A/N:** _Thank you to all my reviewers…I got lots of "This **is** an E/C phic, isn't it…?" comments. Yes, I can assure you Erik will be making his much-anticipated appearance during this chapter… It's short, but better than nothing. And for anyone who thought I could write a Phantom phic without Erik, you must not know me very well. After all, Erik **is** my hero… (You won't get that unless you're a member of either the **Phantom's Opera** or **Phantom-Gerry** boards…)_

_I've also gotten an equal amount of "Wait…you're being **nice** to Raoul!" reviews. Yes, I know…a rarity in and of itself. For those of you left unaware, I'm not a big fan of the fop- I mean, **Raoul.** But I've decided that keeping him in character challenges me as a writer, and it also kind of takes away from the plot when I make him a drunken lunatic. So, you've been given a Raoul-friendly EC phic with a little bit of RC from a **fervent** EC-shipper._

_I know…I'm still in shock, too._

**P.S:**_ I'm sort of on the look-out for someone to whom I can send my chapters before I post them…you know, to check over grammar, spelling, clarity of the plot, etc. So, if you're interested, please email me at **the address listed in my profile. **I'll only need one person to do this for me, so if I get more than one reply to my request (doubtful, but the possibility is still worthy of consideration), I'll let you know one way or another. Kind of like a job application… -shudders- Man, I hate those…even though I've only been through one. Last year…I was the youngest one applying (everybody else was seventeen…I was fourteen…), and I still got the job! Woot woot! Of course, I quit half-a-year later, but… Sorry, went off on a little tangent there…I seem to do that a lot. Please forgive me. –Bows-_

_So…email me if you're a fairly creative thinker who's good at spelling and grammar. If you're not, then don't._

**P.P.S:**_ Sorry that this A/N was so long…I had a lot to say. Now…on to the phic! -Ques trumpets-_

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_You've used everything inside you,  
So maybe it's time you tried to find  
A brand new power to shine a light,  
A light to brighten up your darkest hour…_

Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Starlight Express**

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**_THS SHADOWED PATH_**

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_Those pleading eyes…that both threaten…and…_

"Christine…Christine…"

_"Christine…"_

"Christine!" She woke with a start, her hand flying out in front of her blindly. Her fingers connected with the side of Raoul's face, and he stumbled backwards, landing solidly in the chair that sat conveniently at the head of her bed. Christine blinked a few times as the heavy mists of sleep threatened to cloud her vision. She vaguely saw her husband holding his hands to his nose, his long, auburn hair hanging loosely in front of his eyes.

"Raoul!" He glanced up at her, trying to force his normally charming and utterly disarming smile, but the self-denied pain made the gesture appear grim and insincere. A tiny trickle of blood seeped through the cracks of his fingers, heavily contrasted with the pale, ashen color of his skin. Christine was at his side immediately, a handkerchief appearing in her hand from seemingly nowhere as she attended to him like a devoted little nurse. "Oh, Raoul… I'm so sorry… You startled me… Does it hurt?" she murmured as she dabbed at his nose, staining the satin white lace with smudges of deep, ugly crimson.

After a few moments Raoul brushed her aside with a wave of his hand, turning his back and holding his head up towards the ceiling. Gradually the steady stream of blood slowed and stopped, and he glanced back at Christine warily. "I was just coming to inform you that the carriage is set and ready…have Colette and Simone packed your bags as I instructed?"

Christine hovered tentatively at his side. "Yes…I believe I heard them come into my room about an hour ago, but I fell asleep soon afterwards." She hesitated before placing her hand gently on his shoulder. "Are you alright, Raoul? Are you…angry with me?"

He smiled at her timid simplicity, gazing into her wide, apprehensive eyes. She looked much like a small child staring up at a stern parent. Cupping the back of her head with his hand, he pulled her to him and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "No, I'm not angry with you…it's those blasted servants…" Raoul released her and made a gesture of frustration with his hand, the smile evaporating from his face as quickly as it had appeared.

Christine gathered her nightgown skirts into her arms and headed for her wardrobe, fingering through the many gowns that lined the closet. "You mustn't get so upset with them…they're doing their best…" she called over her shoulder as she pulled out her deep emerald dress, folding the skirt over her waist and glancing at herself in the full-length mirror.

Raoul snorted indignantly. "They're doing their best?" he repeated incredulously. "Not only did they awaken you despite my specific orders to let you sleep, but Manuel burned my breakfast this morning, and François failed to get the carriage ready for your departure!" A deep sigh escaped his throat. "The bloody impertinence…" Christine heard him murmur under his breath. She stepped behind the folded curtain of her changing area.

"Must you be in such a foul disposition on the morning that I'm leaving?" she asked innocently, smiling at him from over the barrier. "Parting on such terms begets horrid luck."

Raoul watched her contour through the curtain as she slipped off her dress, the sun illuminating her unclothed silhouette briefly before clouds stole the sight away. He rose from his seat and walked towards her, placing his hands over the top of the barricade. She glanced up at him in just her undergarments, and he watched as a blush crept up her cheeks. Even after two years of marriage, she retained the simple purity of a young girl. Leaning towards her, he kissed her gently on the lips. "I'm going to miss you," he whispered.

"And I, you," she said softly. Christine glanced over his head at the clock, and then met his eyes once more. "But as much as I hate to interrupt this beautiful moment, I really should get going." Fumbling with the lacing of her dress as she pulled it over herself, she looked up to see Raoul stepping out the doorway. She let him leave without another word.

"Goodbye, then…"

Quite unintentionally, Christine glanced at the mirror once more. She stared at herself, her hand caught around the base of her throat. Why was it that despite the many layers of clothing that covered her, she still felt naked? Why did it feel as though someone were staring at her, peering through her dress and her skin and into her very mind…?

Her very heart…

* * *

"I'm perfectly capable of packing my own suitcases into a carriage, Raoul," she said stubbornly, watching four servants haul various bags and suitcases from the doorstep. "Just as I can cut my own food and put on my own clothes and brush my own hair." She sighed loudly, and the puff of breath that left her lips caused a stray hair to stand on end for a moment before falling back into her face. Tucking it behind her ear, she turned to her husband once again. "I feel as if my own capabilities have been insulted."

"We have servants for a reason, Christine," Raoul murmured, his eyes following the men as they struggled to lift the last trunk into the buggy. The carriage rocked back and forth violently when the immense weight was unloaded, and Christine pursed her lips irately.

"I could have helped them," she protested, casting Raoul a look of irritation. "You're acting as if being a woman makes me incompetent." Christine sat back against the seat, arms folded across her chest, glaring at her husband through the window. Raoul shook his head good-naturedly and ducked his head inside the buggy, touching his lips to the top of her head.

"You're not incompetent," he sighed, holding her chin with his hand. "And things won't be the same around here without you." He pressed another kiss to her cheek. "I'll miss you terribly." Straightening back up, Raoul glanced over his shoulder at the group of servants who now stood by the doorstep, waiting to be dismissed from the scene. "I've informed François of his instructions… He knows exactly where to go." The driver was walking towards his seat at the head of the carriage, but at the sound of his name, turned and tipped his top hat in the direction of the Vicomte and his wife, exposing a head of frizzing gray hair. "You're leaving early enough in the morning that you should be able to arrive in Paris by tomorrow night. Madame Giry will be expecting you."

Christine nodded, her hand trailing over the black lace shawl that was draped over her head. She reached up to Raoul and stroked his cheek with thin, pale fingers. Apprehension gleamed dully in his eyes, and she brought his face down to her own. "I'll be fine," she murmured in response to his unspoken question. "And I'll be back before you even know I'm gone."

Raoul took her hand in his own and held it up to his lips. "Don't have _too_ much fun, Christine," he whispered, giving her a light, crooked smile. "I don't want to have to track you down in the back streets of Paris." He withdrew his head from the window. "That would be an awful nuisance."

The corners of Christine's mouth turned upward slightly as she watched Raoul signal the driver. The carriage gave a sudden lurch and started out of the de Chagny manor. Christine held her hand out through the curtain, waving back at Raoul as she disappeared out the gate.

Raoul watched until the buggy had vanished from sight before turning to his butler. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a fat raindrop that fell upon his cheek without warning. Raising his eyes to the sky, he saw ugly, black storm clouds gather around the once astonishingly clear heavens, blocking the early morning glow. "Brilliant," he muttered sarcastically to the butler. "God has blessed us with an omen of good fortune."

Taking up his cane, the butler wrapped his overcoat closer to his thin frame. "It's only a little bit of water, sir." His last words were drowned out by a crack of thunder, and then a sheet of rain enveloped them.

Raoul glanced at his butler grimly. "You were saying, Marques…?" he yelled over the deafening pulsation of the torrential downpour. Marques shrugged, and together they pulled their coats overtop their heads and started towards the front door of the mansion.

* * *

_'Brilliant,' _Christine thought to herself as she stared out into the monochromatic portrait of blurring variations of gray. She leaned her head against the side of the carriage door, her eyes looking but not truly _seeing_ the scenery as it passed by the window. Her thoughts, scattered and opaque as the clouds that swirled in the hazy morning sky above her, bombarded her tired, weary mind with relentless fury. She pressed her fingers to her temples, massaging the source of the steady pounding of blood against her skull.

_Paris…_

Sighing, Christine allowed her eyes to close, the deep groan of the wind outside the carriage sending a chill down her spine. Her mouth was twisted into a thin grimace, and she sighed.

Paris, indeed.

_"…Christine?"_

_She quickly shut her eyes against the tears that had been steadily flowing down her cheeks. The soft creak of the door echoed through the room, and Christine silently thanked whatever twist of fate had allowed her to lay with her back to her bedroom entrance._

_The bedsprings squealed faintly as additional weight was added to them. A light, gentle hand passed softly over her arm, and she closed her eyes for a moment before turning to face her husband._

_"Your eyes, Christine…!"_

_She quickly swept a hand beneath her eyelids, wiping away the remnants of her tears. "It's nothing…I got a bit of dust in my eye, that's all…" They both knew it to be untrue, but Raoul gave a small grin, and the briefest trace of a smile crossed Christine's lips._

_"You remember what the doctor said, don't you, Christine?" he asked tentatively, moving a bit closer to her. She nodded slowly, eyes wide and questioning. Raoul chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip before continuing. "I sent a letter to an old friend of yours…I hope you don't mind…" Christine cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly._

_"What do you mean?"_

_Raoul looked even more uncomfortable. He glanced out the window, anxious to avoid her piercing stare. "You're supposed to get away for awhile, Christine…" he murmured._

_"…And I thought we agreed to see if I have anymore fainting spells!" she finished for him. "I've been perfectly alright, Raoul! For the past three days I've been lying in this Godforsaken bed…" She hit her fists weakly against the linen blankets that surrounded her. "…waiting for something to happen, good or bad! Well, it hasn't, and I…"_

_"Madame Giry is expecting you to arrive in Paris in one week. She's made all the necessary arrangements." Raoul stood up, gazing down at his wife. She stared back at him, eyes wide. He tried to ignore the sudden, involuntary tremble of her lower lip. Sighing, he knelt back down beside her bed and took her hand. "I'm doing this to help you, Christine; you must understand that!" He kissed her knuckles gently. "I just want you to get well…to overcome whatever it is that's been bothering you since…" There was a hesitation in his voice, and he ran his fingers over her cheek. "Since we were married, I suppose."_

_Christine watched him mutely as he dropped her hand and got up off his knees. "They're looking forward to seeing you, you know," he said softly, glancing back at the door. He paused, rubbing his hand uncomfortably against his neck. "And you don't…you don't have anything to worry about, going back. Any…problems…have been taken care of." The implication of his remark was not lost to Christine, and the color slowly drained from her cheeks._

_She waited until he was safely out the door and down the corridor before she allowed the desperate moan that had been working its way up her throat to escape her lips._

A single tear slipped down her cheek as she continued to stare out the window and into the vaguely formed shapes of nothingness as they swept past her. Why had she allowed herself to be talked into this? What good could come of returning to a place of so many unresolved, haunting memories? He had not said it, but Raoul had insinuated that _he_ was dead. _He,_ the man who had been an unspoken barrier between them for two years.

A monster to her husband…but a constant voice, a never-ceasing whisper in the back of her mind, a ghost of days never to be forgotten. A light whimper flew from her mouth, and she pressed her shaking hand to her lips. God help her, she would never be free of him… She would always have a part of her heart devoted to a man for which she had never been prepared.

A man who was dead.

Christine hugged her knees to her chest, cradling herself against her own thoughts. "No…" she whispered to herself, burying her head inside her cloak. He was not dead…he was not dead…_he was not._ Yet, somewhere in the darkest regions of her mind, a little voice said otherwise. And if this voice was to be believed…if it was to be trusted…

_"No!"_

Two years of restrained emotion welled up within her, and she crumpled to the floor of the carriage, weeping hysterically.

* * *

The small piece of charcoal fell limply from his shaking fingers, dropping onto the yellow parchment with sullen indifference. Closing his eyes, he sat back, placing a trembling hand over his face. He did not want to look…and yet every time, the temptation of seeing her again betrayed him. While working, he did not have to worry about it…she was incomplete, unfinished…not herself in her entirety. While working, she was only a project.

Only a project…

He opened his eyes and looked down at her, a burning paradox of fervent desire and fiery loathing welling up within him. How _dare_ she reduce him to what he had become? How dare she reduce him to _this,_ a mere shadow of the awesome presence he had been…was it only two years ago? God, sometimes it felt like an eternity, waiting for Death as the only beacon left to anticipate.

He stared into her perfectly shaped eyes, wide with innocence, and her mouth, full and enticing and beckoning…such contradictions in a single human being. His gaze traveled over her portrait, following the ripples of her wedding gown from the slender curve of her neck to the elegant outline of her legs. Without thinking, his finger followed the direction of his gaze…

No!

With one swift movement he took the paper in his hand and held it to the flame that danced against the shadows of his room. He watched as the page curled in the heat of fire, melting her from existence. The charred, black edges crept towards her face…and he pulled the picture back to himself, holding it against his heaving chest. The only sound in the room was the echoing of his choked and ragged breaths, and he pressed his fist tightly to his mouth, biting down on his clenched fingers until he felt the skin break and the blood begin to flow. He stared down at her, brushing away the remnants of blackened paper. Gingerly he placed her back onto his desk, his eyes never straying from hers.

He swallowed with some difficulty, fire once again returning to his amber irises. He could not make himself believe that he hated her…though he had tried so many times to convince himself of it… He flung his hand out into the darkness, the swift speed of the movement causing the sketch to flutter to the floor. With one swift gesture he knocked over the single candelabra that sat atop his desk, and the tiny flame went out as it hit the floorboards.

He was left alone in the darkness.

Clasping his head with both hands, he squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the familiar need clawing its way out from the inside…this addiction that tore him apart. There had been the opium in Persia, yes, and of course the morphine in Belgium… He was no stranger to dependence. But he could convince himself that they were merely clouds of influence, a light haze to ease the pain. He could convince himself that they were not transgressions against his own mind.

Not this, though…not this.

So many times he had tried to stop, so many times that he had lost count…lost the will to deny himself the one thing that made him forget. Each time he gave in to the yearning, he returned to his sanctuary with a deeper level of self-disgust. If he could not hate her, at least he could hate himself…

Gathering his cloak into his arms, he pulled out a drawer from his desk. Removing a small coin purse, he tucked it into his belt and stepped hesitantly towards the door. He paused before grabbing the ebony mask that sat on the far end of the writing table, and then he left the room in the swirl of his cape.


	3. A Voice, a Face, a Name

**A/N: ** _Moo-ha-ha! No one guessed Erik's addiction! -Does strange little dance- That's good…I hate it when people guess my endings! But his mysterious ways are soon to be revealed… I've been looking forward to writing this part ever since I started, and I finally got to the chapter that I have deemed appropriate for the scene! Funny…it doesn't include Erik actually physically being there in the room… Hmm… Sorry, don't want to spoil it for you! I guess you'll just have to read and find out! Mwah-ha-ha! -Evil grin- Also, this chapter is a lot longer than my other two…nearly 5,500 words._

**P.S: **_Thank you to everyone who asked to be my beta…I got a lot more replies that I anticipated! Muchas gracias! Mandie, should you read this, I haven't gotten a response back from you…email me and let me know what's going on! And special thanks to Julie, my beta! You're suggestions were so helpful…and I'll try to remember how to spell "reins!"_

**P.P.S:**_ Two quick notes- One, no, that last chapter was not supposed to be entirely in italics… I've fixed it now, so if you want to go back and reread it, it should be a bit easier to follow… Two, I've done some chapter title swapping…that last one is now **This Shadowed Path**, and this one is **A Voice, a Face, a Name.** Sorry about the inconvenience! Enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

_Close every door to me,  
Hide all the world from me.  
Bar all the windows,  
And shut out the light._

_Do what you want with me,  
Hate me and laugh at me.  
Darken my daytime  
And torture my night._

_**Close Every Door to Me, **Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Joseph**_

_**

* * *

**_

_**A VOICE, A FACE, A NAME**_

_**

* * *

**_

In over fifty years of life, François had never seen a day like that one. The sun failed to make an appearance throughout the course of the daylight hours, as if someone had forgotten to awaken it. A wind collected leaves at the wheels of the old carriage, a damp and musty odor wafting past his nostrils as he stared out into the blackened sky. François only became aware of the approaching twilight hours when he checked his ancient golden pocket watch that hung from a clasp in his jacket. Taking the oil lantern down from its post on the side of the buggy, he held it up to eye-level, searching for signs along the dirt road.

Nothing.

François let out a loud, aggravated sigh. He wasn't lost…no, he knew exactly where he was… Well, perhaps not _exactly…_ He had gotten a little turned around back there in the last town… But he had found his way back to the main road, hadn't he? …Hadn't he? Running a thin hand down his aching back, he moved agitatedly from side to side until he heard the reassuring crack of his spine. He slumped once more against his seat, leaning his pounding head back against the carriage. His skull hit something flat and hard, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the small window that separated himself from the Vicomtess. "Madame?" he called, tapping on the glass. No reply.

François peered into the shadows of the inside of the carriage, his tired old eyes not yet adjusted to the overwhelming darkness. He tried pulling open the window, but it the lock was firmly fastened, just as he had set it before starting out. "Madame Vicomtess? Are you sleeping?" he shouted.

'_If she were, she wouldn't answer, you twit!' _sighed a weary, exasperated voice in the back of his mind. François frowned silently to himself, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps he shouldn't risk awakening her…but she hadn't uttered a single word throughout the course of the journey. It wouldn't hurt just to check in on her, to see how she was fairing…

Muttering to himself, François pulled his horse off to the side of the road. He had worked under the de Chagny's for a little over a year now and had yet to see the Vicomtess fly into a rage or become impatient with any of the servants…but having lived with his wife Jeanette (God rest her soul) for thirty years, he knew that to awaken even the gentlest of women while in a deep slumber could result in a…less than favorable outcome. He stepped down off the platform and walked around the buggy to the door.

"Madame, my apologies if I am awakening you, but…" He paused, ducking his head inside the carriage. A black riding cloak lay in a heap on the floor of the buggy, and inside the cloak was… "Madame Vicomtess!" he cried, jumping up the steps and into the coach. Her skin was a ghastly pale color, ashen and unnatural, and from her slightly parted lips fluttered short bursts of air, erratic and irregular. François pulled the hood back from her face, revealing her long mane of mahogany curls that lay flaccidly against her swan-like neck. He gently patted her cheek with a large, grizzled hand.

"Oh please wake up, Madame…please…" Oh God, he was in for it now. He sat back on his heels, wiping a sweaty sleeve across his forehead. Yes, he was done for. The Vicomte had said…

"_If anything, and I mean **anything**, happens to her, François, it's your job that's on the line." He took the wide-eyed driver by the arm and pulled him away from the hubbub of the household. "I'm holding you responsible for her." The Vicomte glanced over François's shoulder, anxiously watching the carriage in which the Vicomtess sat out of the corner of his eye. "You know as well as I that these spells have been becoming more and more frequent. I want you to report directly back to me if something…unexpected happens."_

_François nodded vigorously. "Of course, sir…you have nothing to worry about. She's in good hands, I can assure you." Taking one last look at his wife, the Vicomte sighed._

"_I know she is." He clapped the old man lightly on the shoulder. "You're a good man, François…"_

François rubbed a shaking hand over his chin, his gaze locked on the Vicomtess. It was a full day's journey back to Lyons, back to the de Chagny manor… But the Vicomte's instructions had been clear if she had another attack. He gave a loud, frustrated sigh. The woman needed a place to stay for the night, that much was certain… Hurrying out of the carriage, François snapped the reins of the horse and continued in the direction he had been heading.

* * *

It was almost fifteen minutes before he saw the any sign of life at all. A lone figure walked along the shoulder of the road, draped from head to toe in a long, billowing cape. He blended in so well with the surrounding darkness that François almost drove right past him. The driver quickly stopped the carriage next to the stranger. "Excuse me, monsieur…" he called anxiously. "Do you happen to know how far we are from Paris…?" 

The man paused, his face shrouded in the shadows of his hood. He turned to him slowly, deliberately, and François flinched at the sight of him. The only aspects of his countenance visible through the blackness of the night were two glowing amber eyes that glared fiercely back at him. For a moment François simply stared, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He felt the sudden need to get away from this man, an overwhelming sensation of claustrophobia descending upon his mind. It was as if he were gazing upon the Devil himself…

"You have at least another day's journey, _monsieur."_ François felt the air stop in his throat. That voice…nothing had prepared him for that voice, so low and hypnotic and utterly _beautiful…_ And the civility in his tone! It was as if he were talking to the King himself!

Or had he detected a hint of mockery in that engaging voice?

The stranger turned away, and François was jolted from his momentary lapse in consciousness. Another day's journey? François let out a sigh of frustration, running his fingers through his thinning hair. He turned back to his companion only to find…nothing. Looking up the path, he saw the man continuing down the narrow stretch of road, his pace conspicuously quicker than before. "Wait, monsieur!" he shouted, taking up the reins in his hand. The stranger hesitated once more, but did not bother to turn around and face his pursuer. "Monsieur…do you know of any hotels in the area? A place where I could stay? Somewhere small, relatively inexpensive, just for the night…?"

"No." The reply was sharp and precise, revealing no emotion whatsoever. Biting his lip, François nodded dejectedly and turned away, pinching the bridge of his thin, bony nose.

"Thank you, monsieur. You have been a great help," he murmured distantly, relinquishing his attempt to hide the disappointment in his eyes. "I must be on my way now."

He started off again, his chin resting on his chest, when the man behind him shouted, "Wait…" François jerked his head around, glancing over his shoulder in time to see the stranger take a few hurried steps towards him. "There is _one _place…" he said in a deep, expressionless voice. Blinking, François almost missed the flicker of conflicting emotion in the man's brilliantly golden eyes. "It's just up the road…I will show you." He allowed no room for contradiction in his offer, and without another word he started towards the back of the carriage.

"Monsieur!" François called, sidling towards the edge of his seat. "I have another passenger, sir. She's asleep at the moment, and…she isn't feeling very well." The man glanced at the curtains that had been drawn over the windows, then turned his amber eyes back to François. "You are welcome to accompany me up here, though," the old man said lightly, indicating the driver's platform on which he was seated. He saw the hesitation in the stranger's stance, but then the man grasped the handrail with a black-gloved hand, pulling himself up onto the driver's platform. François took up the reins and started down the road once more. "You are very kind to be doing this for us," he said gruffly, taking a quick look at the man beside him. "A man of your benevolence is not often found these days, monsieur. You have my humble and sincere thanks…and the Lady's."

The stranger said nothing for a moment as he drew his hood down farther over his eyes, his arms folded within his cloak. "I was on my way there myself, monsieur; my intentions were certainly not altruistic," he muttered softly. "You make me out to be much more noble and selfless than I truly am. I can assure you, monsieur, that I am no angel."

* * *

He watched as the driver paled at his words, and he turned his eyes back to the road. If the old man had seen his face, he gave no sign of it; he said nothing, and he was quite thankful for the silence that had descended upon the two unlikely companions. _'This will be a lot more trouble than it's worth if he sees your mask!'_ an accusing voice in his mind murmured, mentally nudging him with a nonexistent elbow. He swallowed thickly, clearing his throat and breaking the stillness. The driver glanced at him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. 

Good.

The old man had said he has heading for Paris. The frown on his face deepened. _Paris…_ Now _there_ was a city he could do without hearing of for the rest of his (hopefully brief) life. He had not set foot in Paris in nearly two years…and he had no intention of doing so now…

:-:-:

He had left Paris on horseback in the dead of the night, alone…but he was not surprised. Solitude was the one companion that stayed with him throughout his life, the one friend he could count on. The wind whipped the cloak back from his body, and his eyes brightened momentarily at the thought that he must look something like Death itself sweeping across the vast plains of France. He smiled in what felt like the first time in years, his cheeks unaccustomed to the expression. Running a hand over his right cheek, he felt the grin melt slowly from his face, his fingers trailing broodingly over the ravaged flesh.

The horse slowed to a trot before stopping on its own accord, swinging its massive head from side to side like a giant, unblinking pendulum. Its rider turned slowly around to glance over his shoulder at the glowing outline of Paris…the world's metropolis for music and art and beauty, a city that should have been _his_ domain. It was a place known for its soft candlelit evenings donned in deep crimson and ebony, a place that embraced the wonders of the night.

He hated it.

Digging his heels into the horse's sides, he started off into the moonlight. He did not let himself turn back again…he couldn't. He rode all night and all the next day, telling himself that with each beating of the hooves beneath him, he was just a bit farther from her face. And yet as he rode through the empty fields, the images of the…_events_ that had occurred in Paris became a little bit sharper, a little more poignant. …Her ghostly white figure drifting towards him like the angel she had believed him to be, her lips sliding against his own, molding themselves with his as if they had been coated in an exquisite oil.

The first of many tears slipped down his naked cheek.

He passed through the unusually cold forests of Dijon without even noticing the subtle change in terrain, the ground beneath him becoming rock-strewn and potholed. Trees flew past him like fireflies, darting in and out of his thoughts through the thick opaqueness of the fog. He was so absorbed within his own mind that he almost passed right by the angled shadow that stood out from the lofty, limber trees swaying in the light breeze…

A house.

Stopping the horse with a swift kick to the ribs, he slid gracefully from its back and led it towards the quarters, his eyes flickering cautiously from side to side, searching with an acute awareness for any residents that may be dwelling therein. Seeing none around the front of the building, he stepped sinuously onto the front porch, ears tuned for any noise.

He was so engrossed in his hunting that he failed to notice the empty carriage that sat, unoccupied, around the back…

Stepping lightly up onto the porch, he peered inside the dust-covered windows, his hand shielding his eyes from the grime. A low, muffled moan sounded from within the house and, blinking in surprise, he took a step backwards. A few moments later a man stepped outside, scratching unabashedly at the large gut that spilled from above his hastily-buttoned trousers. An empty bottle of cognac was grasped loosely in his grip, the remnants sloshing about inside the glass. His eyes, bloodshot and half-closed, wandered aimlessly around until they fell upon the man in black standing stock-still on the other side of the porch. The heavy man squinted into the darkness.

"Who're…?"

His hand fumbled clumsily with the pistol tucked unceremoniously inside his belt, bringing it up to eye level and aiming it at the intruder…or at least at the spot in which the intruder had been standing moments before. The creak of floorboards echoed behind him, and he turned to see the eyes of the Devil staring fiercely back at him. Giving a gasp of surprise, he stumbled backwards, falling against the wooden paneling of the cottage.

"I suggest you put that away before you hurt yourself," the stranger said coldly, his voice resonating through the porch. Instead of pocketing the revolver, the man, in his drunken stupor, took an uncoordinated step forwards, his hand shaking in his intoxication.

"Who're you ta tell me whatter do?" he mumbled, jabbing at him with the barrel of his gun.

The man in black closed his eyes against the anger that was rising to a dangerous point within him. Despite the fact the brute was drunk, despite the fact there was clearly no comparison to their levels of efficiency in killing the other, he felt his hand twist itself around the lasso hidden away inside his cloak. If this man valued his subsistence, he would do well to remain silent…

"I don' take no 'structions from no thief. I have half a mind to jab 'dis thing right up your…"

Something within him snapped. The Punjab lasso was out in an instant, coiling its way around the man's thick neck with deadly accuracy, and within a few moments, the drunk fell to the hard wooden floor with a sickening thud. For a moment, the lone survivor simply stared at the body with wide, calculating eyes. He looked down at his own hands, covered by thin black leather gloves…and he clenched them into fists. Damn you!

"Monsieur?"

He paled beneath his cloak. The voice had sounded from within the house…the voice of a woman… He wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. Oh God, had he just killed a husband in his ungovernable rage? _No,_ a voice reasoned within him. She had called him _monsieur…_ Since when was it custom to refer to one's husband in such a formal manner?

Stepping inside, he found himself staring at an incredibly plain existence: a table, two chairs…and a large, unmade bed. A bed that held a young woman in its tangled sheets… "Where is Monsieur Frederick?" she asked innocently, her wide gray eyes traveling languidly over his body, analyzing the man before her like one might observe a particularly fascinating piece of artwork. "Is he still outside, the drunken brute?"

The girl laughed softly, wrapping a thin silk robe around herself and getting up off the bed. She took slow, deliberate steps towards him, and he quickly turned his face away from her. There was no denying her beauty…a small, heart-shaped face framed by long, strawberry blonde locks. She trailed her hand lazily from one cream-colored shoulder to the other, pressing a single finger to the corner of her full lips. Standing only a few feet from him, she asked in barely more than a whisper, "Are you his friend? He mentioned he might be…"

Her eyes fell upon the body that lay just outside the door. In a flash, the girl fell to her knees on the ground, grasping the hems of his pants in her hands. "Oh please, monsieur…" she cried, sobbing against him. "You may have my money…I swear I won't tell a soul! You have my word! The money…it is in the pocket of my coat…take it all…I won't tell a soul…"

Gradually her heaving, shaking breaths became the only sound in the house. He stared down at her, eyes wide with bewilderment. Slowly she raised her head and met his gaze…and she saw the uncovered flesh of his right cheek. He made no move to cover it, and she made no move to turn away. Instead, she stared back at him with fascination and…something else, something he could not name. An expression he had never seen before sparkled in those large, grey eyes, and he felt the air become lodged in his throat. In those moments, he became aware of her own dawning understanding, the tears evaporating from her face. She knew he would not harm her…she knew that was not why he was there…

Her hand grasped the top of his trousers, her fingers entwined in his belt. Her other hand slid gracefully down to his pocket, the silver jingle of coins echoing through the room. Her hand moved farther down still…

She had been the first. The first of many…

:-:-:

He hated himself with such a burning, loathing disgust. Wiping a hand across his cheek, he turned back to glance at the driver. His gaze remained locked on the road ahead. Closing his eyes, he remembered the night with the first prostitute. He remembered the emotion that churned within him as he lay in the darkness…emotions choked with bitterness, self-resentment…guilt. _Fool!_ he thought to himself. _How many times do you think she will consummate her marriage to that boy during their honeymoon? How many times do you think they will try to produce an heir to carry on the proud de Chagny name?_

But he didn't want to think about that now. All he wanted was the warmth of a body…the joys of the flesh…

"How far are we?"

The old man's voice broke him from his thoughts. "Excuse me?" he mumbled softly.

The driver glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye. "I asked how far we are from the hotel. We've been traveling for quite a while, and you said it was just up the road…"

"It's there," he said abruptly, pointing to the tall, strangely angled house that sat alone atop the hill before them. The driver steered his horse to the right, starting up the steep slope. _This is the last time,_ he thought to himself sullenly, staring at the building with bitter resentment. _The last time…_

He told himself the same thing every single time.

* * *

François kept a close eye on the man beside him as he pulled to a stop beside the front door. There was something terribly wrong with him…he had been muttering to himself all throughout their journey to the hotel, though François was only able to catch bits and pieces of sentences. 

"_Damn her…why…alone…last time…"_

None of it made any sense to him. The man seemed highly unstable…perhaps he should mention it to the manager. "Thank you for directing us here, monsieur. We are eternally grateful, and despite what you may say, you are a good man," François said, extending his hand out to the stranger. The man hesitated, staring at François's hand with stoic indecision, then after a moment, took it in his own. "I did not even catch your name."

His companion paled a bit, his eyes gravitating to his gloved hands uncertainly. "My name?" he muttered, glancing up at François. "The, uh, people around here refer to me as…"

An incoherent mumble sounded from inside the carriage, and François immediately responded, silencing his escort with a wave of his hand. Jumping from his place upon the platform, he hurried around the side of the buggy and opened the door. "Madame?"

When he returned to his driver's seat, he discovered that the strange man in black had disappeared.

* * *

The room was shrouded in clouds, as if a veil had been draped across her eyes. She blinked a few times and found herself lying in a bed she had never felt before. How strange. 

Rubbing her eyes with her fingers, Christine sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. Now…where exactly was she? The carriage…the carriage was the last thing she remembered. Another spell, apparently. She sighed, pushing the blankets from her body and dangling her legs over the side of the mattress. Clutching the edge of her nightstand, Christine pushed herself up onto her feet…and promptly fell back down onto the bed. She frowned, expecting nothing less. Her legs were always a bit unsteady after her fainting spells.

Where the devil was François?

As if on cue, the door to the room opened, and Christine turned to see whoever was entering with mounting expectance. Instead of the friendly, wrinkled face of her driver, however, she as greeted with the sight of three unfamiliar young women. They came in one by one, each carrying a cup, and each noticeably more voluptuous than the next. The first two were quite obviously twins, with identically round, tanned faces and long, full chestnut-red hair that glistened despite the lack of a light source within the bedroom. They smiled in unison, their deep, emerald green eyes twinkling with affable warmth.

Their companion was very different. Though the deep olive color of their skin was all alike, the last woman was much taller, her face, longer and vacant of the innocent glow of the twins. Dark, intelligent eyes gleamed from beneath a head of short, choppy black hair, and she sat down on the edge of Christine's bed. "Good morning, my dear," she said genially, her voice thick with an accent Christine could not place. She smiled politely.

"Good morning…" she replied slowly, her gaze traveling between the three women. She peered between the cracks of the window opposite her. "Is it really morning?"

One of the twins nodded. "Oh yes…nearing noontime, I believe."

Christine sat up a bit straighter, her hand suddenly flying to her temples. "What is it?" asked the other twin.

"Just a bit of a headache…" Christine said, eyes squeezed shut against the rhythmic pounding of blood in her ears. "It's nothing, I'm fine. Quite used to it, in fact…"

The woman who was presumably older than the twins nodded knowingly. "Madame thought nothing less. Here," she said, holding out her steaming cup. "Drink this."

Christine brought the mug to her lips, inhaling the aroma of fresh herbs, but she did not take a sip. "Who is 'Madame'?" she asked cautiously, glancing between them, eyes wide.

"Madame is the manager of this hotel…she's really quite good with medicines and remedies and such, so you needn't worry about…" the taller woman started, her voice trailing off.

"Where is my driver?"

One of the twins edged a bit closer to Christine. "He went off to alert your husband of your condition. Apparently he was to report back to him if something went wrong." Her two companions stared at her with questioning eyes, and the twin shrugged. "He was speaking quite loudly. I couldn't help but overhear bits and pieces of the conversation…"

The older woman sighed, then turned back to Christine. "You mustn't mind Chantal…she allows her tongue to run rampant…" She shot a warning look at Chantal, who blushed and looked away. Smiling widely at Christine, she said, "I'm Roslin…this is Fantine." Roslin waved a thin, elegant hand in the other twin's direction. "We…work here." Chantal and Fantine chortled quietly, and Christine glanced at them, eyebrows raised.

"Why…? What do you mean?" she asked bemusedly, her eyes still locked on the twins, who pressed the backs of their light brown hands to their mouths to refrain from laughing.

Roslin smiled exasperatedly. "We come from outside the city, ma'moiselle. Not from your class."

"Are you gypsies?"

Roslin's head bobbed back and forth lightly, gesturing a nod. "More or less. Madame gave us work, and we find extra money doing…_odd jobs,_ here and there." Here, Chantal and Fantine doubled over in silent giggles, and Roslin grinned at them, unabashed.

"I don't follow you…" Christine murmured.

"Our services are always open to the weary traveler. We make no distinction of status."

It finally dawned on her, and Christine's gaze slowly traveled between the three women. "You are whores."

Roslin shrugged indifferently. "We prefer 'women of pleasure,' but whatever term appeases you." Christine blinked, lips parted slightly. "My dear, our customs are so radically different from yours. You find our line of work appalling…we find it convenient."

Christine nodded, turning her gaze to her hands as she absentmindedly smoothed the linen sheets that covered her legs. "And what is your name, child?" asked Fantine gently.

She glanced up at them. "Christine."

The reaction gained from those two syllables was astounding. Chantal gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she turned her now completely circular eyes to her sister. Fantine grabbed at the pendent that hung from her neck, squeezing it between her fingers in sheer alarm.

"_That's enough!"_

The twins fell silent at the authority commanded in Roslin's voice. Chantal gripped Fantine's arm, her knuckles turning a pasty white, but they said nothing. Christine gazed between the three, her eyes wide and glassy and completely uncomprehending.

Roslin sighed and turned to Christine. "You'll have to excuse them, my dear. They are allowing a _mere superstition_ to overtake their normally rational minds." She pursed her lips with an air of arrogance, glancing at the two girls out of the corner of her eye.

"It isn't superstition!" cried Fantine. "Roslin, you know it to be true…you've heard…"

"I know what I heard!" Roslin snapped, and the twins shrunk away from her steely gaze. She placed her hand lightly on Christine's shoulder, her eyes still focused on her two companions. "You honestly think this is her? Look at her!" The twins lowered the glance slowly.

"You're right, Roslin," murmured Chantal. "We were silly to allow those stories to affect us so."

"Of course you were," Roslin replied matter-of-factly.

Christine stared at the three, the wide-eyed expression still plastered on her face. "Excuse me…" she said softly, turning to Roslin. "But…what was all that? What is it about my name that frightens them?" Fantine and Chantal glanced at Roslin, who bit her lip.

"It's just a story…a silly, childish story…" she muttered. Sighing, she dropped her hands to her lap. "I suppose it was a year ago…would you say a year, girls?" The twins nodded simultaneously. "Yes, about a year ago, a man came to our hotel. A stranger, not from these parts…very dark and mysterious, a certain…_air_ about him, if you will."

"And rich, too," added Fantine, eyes glistening. "His clothes were so elegant…and his cloak…" A smile danced across her lips. "He had the most gorgeous cloak…"

Roslin interrupted her with a quick motion of her hand. "And so, one of us offered our services… It was Jacqueline, I believe." She glanced questioningly at the twins who nodded vigorously. "Yes, Jacqueline approached him first. He assented, and she took him to her room. The next morning, we spoke with her about him. Now, first off you must understand that our normal customers are old or fat or drunks or brutes…nothing like this man. Tall, silent, composed…_powerful._ There was no denying his inherent authority. We were all quite interested in what Jacqueline had to say, you see."

"She said he was a very skillful lover," Chantal cut in. "Quiet, but skillful. Well…" she shot a look at her sister, then turned back to Christine. "Not _completely_ quiet…"

"This is where you come in, my dear," said Roslin quickly. "Jacqueline said that at the height of passion…" A blush crept onto Christine's face in response to Roslin's words. "The man cried out the name 'Christine.' She told us she assumed this _Christine_ was a former lover or some sort, a slip of the tongue on his part. And so, when he came back the following week, I gave him a go. Again, right in the middle of it all, the same name…Christine."

"He has done it every time," Fantine said. "It wasn't long before rumors started to spread among us about this man…it was inevitable, for many of the women found themselves almost _drawn_ to him, despite the…" Her voice drifted off, and she became silent.

"Some of the girls began to say he was a demon, or even the Devil himself," whispered Chantal eagerly. "I think it was probably his eyes… I have never seen eyes like his, golden and fiery…"

Christine felt the color begin to drain from her cheeks. "Gold…golden eyes?" she stammered.

"Yes…many of us Gypsies believe him to be a dark spirit, a black phantom." Christine's lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably. "And this woman, this Christine to whom he cries out every night he spends in our arms, she is the Devil's Lover, his Hell-Bound Wife."

"He has many names among us here at the hotel, names we only speak in hushed whispers when he is not around." said Roslin. "His most common one is _Le Démon Masqué…"_

"…_The Masked Demon…"_ Christine breathed.

"Oh, didn't I mention?" asked Roslin lightly. She put a hand to her cheek, laughing quietly to herself. "He wears a mask…a mask that covers the right side of his face. We don't know why; he refuses to…"

She was interrupted by the crash of china. They all looked to see the mug Christine was holding shattered on the floor, its contents seeping out onto the flooring. They all glanced up in unison to find Christine trembling from head to toe, as white as the sheets in which she wrapped herself.

"_Erik…"_ she whispered, the name only a faint murmur in the stillness of the room.


	4. A Scorpion's Poison

**A/N:**_ Fondest greetings, my loyal readers. Sorry about the wait… Family vacation, you know how it is. The rating in this chapter is a bit higher than the others, just as fair warning. Also, it's a bit of a flashback in regards to the last scene: This is taking place from Erik's point of view on the night François brought him to the hotel._

**P.S: **_Once again, thank you to all my reviewers! You help me type faster! …No, seriously! It's true! This update was an exception; I really do appreciate your support; so please excuse the length of time it took me to post this chapter… -Sheepish smile-_

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* * *

_

_I closed my eyes, drew back the curtain  
To see for certain what I thought I knew.  
Far far away, someone was weeping,  
But the world was sleeping…  
Any dream will do._

**_Any Dream Will Do, _**_Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Joseph**_

_**

* * *

**_

**_A SCORPION'S POISON_**

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* * *

_**

Once he was safely concealed within the protection of the shadows, Erik turned to glance over his shoulder, watching the driver gaze out into the night, searching for his elusive companion. Had he been in a better mood, Erik would have laughed. But not tonight.

With a silent gesture, he pushed open the doorway of the hotel, his eyes flickering briefly back to the old man who continued to look about in bewilderment. Clutching his cloak tightly to his chest, Erik stepped inside. The foyer was just as he had left it a week ago: dark, musty, and utterly overpopulated. Men of all different shapes and sizes filled the hallway, crowding the small wooden tables, their deep voices echoing through the walls with thunderous conversation and drunken bouts of laughter. Cigar smoke was thick in the air, as was the smell of body odor and alcohol. A sneer worked its way onto Erik's lips.

How he deplored this place.

"Monsieur! Monsieur…" He felt a hand grasp the hem of his thick black cloak, and he whirled around with dangerous finesse, his eyes burning in pointed vigilance.

Madame.

His gaze instantly lost its dangerous glint, and he pursed his lips. The short, firm-footed woman before him placed her hands on her hips, eyebrow raised. "I was wondering if I had seen the last of you, monsieur. You haven't been here in nearly a week and a half…" Erik looked away uncomfortably, unable to meet the woman's stern gaze. "Rumors have been circling, my dear sir." Madame (for he knew her as nothing else) tapped her foot impatiently, aggravated by his lack of response. Her management over the hotel was never questioned, her authority never crossed. It was a dangerous power game between them, neither readily admitting their headlock of stubborn, unyielding supremacy: Madame, the acknowledged keeper of the artifice, Erik, the nameless presence of sexual conviction. Bated, apprehensive breath awaited either arrival, the very air stilled in their company. And yet there was a bridge of unspoken, mutual respect between them, and this reverence prevented any arguments more aggressive than mere bickering.

It was quite obvious that Madame had been beautiful in her earlier years, but now, as she spiraled down from the pinnacle of her life, the wrinkles and dulling spark in her eyes betrayed her good looks. "…And you know as well as I how your visits affect both the girls and my income. When you don't show up, my business pays for it." She eyed him thoughtfully. "As do the girls." Her eyes remained locked on his face, awaiting his reaction.

A gentle, mocking snort escaped him, barely more than a heavy sigh. Meeting her gaze, he returned her stare with a dark, alluring glance, his eyes sparkling in sinister amusement. "Are your words meant to affect my schedule, Madame?" She scowled. "If the girls lack sufficient funds, perhaps they would do better with a _real_ job, a job that requires talent other than the ability to lie on one's back and moan with the proper enthusiasm." He swept past her with the wave of his cloak, feeling her angry gaze as it bore into his back.

"You mock them, sir, and yet here you are," she replied tartly. Madame put on a sickly sweet smile. "Shall I fetch Brigitte for you then, monsieur? I know how you favor her…"

She grew silent at his look, a glance of warning anger. Any humor in his eyes had vanished, his stare once again taking on a threatening glaze. "I believe, Madame, that I passed her on my way in tonight. She appeared to be…otherwise engaged."

The words fell from his lips with quiet disdain, and Madame clicked her tongue. "Perhaps you would care to try out the newest member of our loving family… She just came in a few days ago." Without waiting for his response, she turned on heel and disappeared into one of the back rooms.

Erik sat back on his heels, running a gloved hand over his face. _God,_ how he hated this place... He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Last time," he muttered vaguely to himself. "This is the last time."

He knew it wouldn't be.

"Monsieur…" Madame called.

When he looked up, Erik was greeted with a sight that reassured him of God's dark, twisted sense of humor.

* * *

It took him a few moments to realize that it was the hair… Yes, the hair was what did it. The girl before him had long, chestnut locks that curled lightly around her shoulders, framing a pale, oval face. It mattered little to him that she had small, sea-green eyes, and a thin, wide set mouth. All he saw was the hair…the gorgeous, brunette locks that would have looked so absolutely divine spread out across a satin pillow beneath him…

"No," he whispered hoarsely, damning his own voice for sounding so weak. "No, find someone else." Erik did not miss the flicker of self-conscious astonishment in the girl's gaze. Puzzled and hurt, she was led away by Madame, who cast a brief yet audaciously firm glance over her shoulder at him. Propping his elbows on his knees, he held both sides of his head with his hands, wishing himself out of this self-inflicted nightmare.

He allowed his eyes traveled cautiously around at the men who shared his company, men who were far from their home (if they had one), their wives, their children… Here, pasts were forgotten, not questioned; any gentleman with cash in his pocket could be delivered from one night spent alone in the dark. As Erik sat at a solitary distance, many of the women cast their gazes into his corner, eyeing the prize they would not find beneath them that night. Their customers, too drunk to notice, called for one more tankard to wet their pallet, their hands wandering aimlessly across the smooth flesh that took seat in their laps.

The sharp, calculating eyes of beautiful whores were locked on Erik, and he too remained oblivious to their stare…for he allowed only one woman to occupy his every thought.

"Monsieur…" came a low purr from the doorway behind him. He turned to find a tall woman with short raven hair standing beside Madame, her long caramel-colored fingers wrapped lazily around her hip. Erik glanced at Madame and nodded expressionlessly, his eyes falling back on the girl. He had taken her into his company before, though he could not recall her name; most of the time he did not even bother to ask.

"Roslin," Madame cooed sweetly. "Make certain that our guest is given everything he desires."

Running her hand down the length of his sleeve, Roslin replied, "With pleasure, Madame."

After a moment, Madame's glance flitted back to Erik. "I expect you back down here by three o'clock tomorrow afternoon, monsieur. The piano has at least an inch of dust on it…" She shot a fleeting look over at the ivory keys, which were covered in filth and grime, before turning back to him, her eyes sharp and unblinking. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, and she frowned scathingly. "Remember, you cannot fuck for free. I scratch your back if and only if you scratch mine." Erik's eyebrows rose in reply to her biting tone. "I will not go back on our deal; my people want entertainment, and they will have it."

Erik gave only a low grunt as his response, his gaze flickering to Roslin with a dark, unreadable glint radiating from his glowing amber eyes. She returned his stare with a bold, ostentatious glance, bringing her thick red lips into a wide pout. "Madame," she said suddenly. "Your idle chitchat is beginning to bore us." Roslin took Erik by the arm, her hand lightly brushing past the gentle rise of his trousers, and started up the stairs.

Madame's frown deepened, but she said nothing. Erik knew the restraint of her tongue was only due to the fact that Roslin had been a loyal and successful addition to Madame's brood since the very beginning…for Madame was never one to allow another the last word. She nodded curtly, her eyes following them until they were but two shadows in the darkened corridor. After a moment, she turned her back and hurried into the kitchen.

* * *

The flight of steps leading up into the lodgings of the hotel was dilapidated and damp, void of any natural light. Erik followed Roslin up the winding stairwell in silence, taking no notice of her occasional glance over her shoulder. His cloak was suddenly stiflingly heavy, and with a single gloved hand, he began to work at the lacing around his neck, loosening the velvet strings by pulling them away from his chest.

At the top of the steps was a long, narrow corridor, two rows of identical doors on either side. The spacing between the entrances allowed for very confined quarters, each with no more than three meters in width. The numbering on each of the doors ran in consecutive order, the even on the right, odd on the left. Roslin trailed a single, perfectly shaped hand along the uneven wooden paneling, her eyes flickering at the man behind her, hardly believing her own luck. It had been months since she had been called to service him…and now, she began to tremble with sheer anticipation of the night ahead.

She did not need to ask in which room he would be staying; her fingers reached unhesitatingly for the knob of the door at the end of the hall, his eyes following each and every one of her smallest movements in calculating silence. Without a word, he handed her a small bronze key from his pocket, and Roslin smiled at him from beneath a wave of short raven hair.

The room was part of his deal…that, and any woman he desired, in exchange for a small fee at predetermined intervals and a performance twice a month. _Not a bad deal,_ she thought to herself as she inserted the key into the lock. _And not only on your side, monsieur…_

Erik stepped into the room after Roslin, glaring around at the peeling wallpaper and the unmade, disheveled bed. The room was permanently perfumed with the smell of burned-out candles, opium smoke (he kept a small stash locked up in the desk that sat in the corner), and women…lots and lots of women, each with their own unique scent and memory. His breaths became short and angry, nostrils flaring ever so subtly. Sometimes he wished he could just dowse the entire room in ammonia simply to rid himself of the reminders.

His hand wove its way around the base of his neck, rubbing the skin above his chest. Roslin, misinterpreting the gesture, stepped towards him and began what she believed was assisting him in unbuttoning his thin white chemise. Erik glanced down at her, eyes burning, and she returned his stare with a narrowed, suggestive gaze, running the slightest bit of her tongue across her lower lip. She reached the last button and paused, running her eyes and fingers across the smooth, sculpted flesh of his abdomen and chest.

Erik gazed at her, and suddenly he no longer saw a woman he barely knew, but an escape…a sweet, blessed escape from his own mind. The cloak fell from his shoulders and his hands snaked effortlessly around her hips, fingers working at the ties of the deep crimson dress that was shorter in length and lower in cut than would be deemed acceptable anywhere but in that room. He felt her unbuckle his belt and slide gently against him, her own fingers working wonders upon his skin. She was unbelievably good at what she was paid to do, he granted her that. But this was going too slowly…much too slowly…

He ripped the dress from her body, and he heard the excited little gasp she gave as he ran his hands up and down her smooth brown thighs, begging entry with his touch. He eased out of his trousers with a grace only he could have mastered and pulled her closer by the wrists, his fingers now dancing up her spine and across her chest. She reached her hands up to his face, pulling it down to claim his kiss, but he jerked away, turning his eyes from her.

No…his lips would not be touched. Never again.

She was not surprised; it was simply another one of his strange, mysterious, and ultimately intriguing eccentricities. Instead, she led him over to the bed that stood against the wall, grasping his hard waist and pulling him upon herself. He grunted against her, propping himself up on his arms as he stared down at her hungrily. Working his hips rhythmically against her torso, Erik once again asked admittance with his body, and without a second thought she allowed him in, groaning with an intense pleasure that she received from no other customer. His breath fluttered past her shoulder, quick and hot, causing her deep black hair to stand on end. _Faster…_he thought. _Faster, faster…hurry up…_

"Oh _God…"_ she moaned into his neck, digging her nails into his shoulder. Her words were followed by quick gasps, her voice suddenly changing from the soft, feminine purr to the pleading whimpers of a little girl as she whispered, "Please, please, _please…"_ He ignored her.

_Don't think. Don't remember. _He nodded to himself, the sweat dripping down his forehead. _Don't remember… _Erik realized he had squeezed his eyes shut against the darkness and he opened them, gazing down at the woman beneath him. Her hair spread like black fire against the downy feather pillow under her head, but as he watched, the locks seemed to grow, becoming long, silky chestnut curls. They spilled wondrously over the bed, and he could smell their fragrance…

_Mine, _said a voice in his ear.

The groans grew louder, and the girl's face grew paler, the nose becoming smaller and daintier. Her lips, once blood red, softened into a light pink, and she smiled up at him.

_Mine…_

Her eyes flew open, wide and innocent, a deep honey brown that made him thrust without even thinking, with all his might. She gave a gasp of both pain and passion, biting down instinctively on his shoulder. His skin broke, but he did not realize until he saw the tiny red stream drip steadily down his arm. Her hands grasped the bedpost behind her head.

"Mine!" he hissed.

_"Erik!"_ she called out into the night, her voice that of an angel. Beautiful…captivating…the voice that had haunted his every dream, his every nightmare for two years.

No, all his life…

_"Christine…"_

_

* * *

_

She awoke in the dark, alone, disoriented and tangled in the winding sheets. The moon was high in the night sky, and she wiped the beads of perspiration from her brow. A small whimper escaped her lips as she remembered what had awakened her from her slumber…

His voice.

He called to her, beckoning, pleading…

Christine rolled onto her side and pulled her knees up to her chest. When she awoke the next morning to the sound of birds, before Chantal and Fantine and Roslin would enter her room and shatter every sane thought in her head, she would not recall the dream. She would not even remember waking up in the middle of the night to her angel's song…

* * *

Roslin awoke more exhausted than she had been in…well, longer than she cared to admit. Most of the time, she found that she could diminish any and all energy her men had to offer, tiring them out before she even broke a sweat. She yawned contentedly, stretching and arching her back like a cat. But last night…she smirked. No, her vigor was well and truly burned. She had been _'ridden like a well-used horse,'_ Roslin thought with a smile, remembering the many times her mother had used the phrase. _Ridden like a well-used horse._ She slumped back onto her pillow, glancing to her left at man beside her.

The mask gleamed dully in the dawning sun.

The grin slowly faded from her lips as she recalled their last discussion about _the mask._

_She had awakened to the sound of the window opening. Rubbing her eyes, Roslin stared as her customer ducked outside, preparing to scale the drainpipe down to the ground._

_"What in God's name are you doing, monsieur?"_

_He started, glancing over his shoulder at her as she wrapped the sheet around her naked body and got up off the bed. Pursing his lips, he said, "I…was simply getting a breath of fresh air, mademoiselle."_

_Roslin grinned and stepped closer to him. "You're trying to get away so you don't have to play that goddamned piano this afternoon," she asked, black eyes glinting deviously. He said nothing, glancing away from her amused stare. "It's alright, I won't tell Madame."_

_"Thank you."_

_She traced the outline of his muscles through his shirt, her smirk deepening. "No, I won't tell a soul, monsieur; not Madame, not the girls, no one…if you would take off your mask."_

_The silence in the room was sudden and instantly overwhelming. At once his eyes coupled with hers, the golden irises piercing her very soul. Instinctively she shrunk away from him, unable to pull her gaze away from those beautiful, glowing, **deadly** amber eyes…_

_"Excuse me?" he whispered, his lips barely moving as he spoke._

_She had not asked again._

Now Roslin stared at the mask as it taunted her with its awareness of what lay beneath the white leather. The man was so complicated, so fascinating… Was it really all that unfeasible that he should wear a mask simply to wear a mask? Perhaps it was a symbol of some sort, a mask to hide his face to cover the mask that hid his soul, something poetic in that sense… Nothing was impossible with this man, and she would find that nothing could surprise her about him. He had been so fervent in his refusal to remove it that she found her insatiable lust for his exquisite body matched only by her insatiable lust for knowledge…the knowledge of what he was hiding under that Godforsaken mask…

She inched her hand up his chest, her other arm wrapped tightly around his solid abdomen. He shifted in his sleep, and she held the air within her lungs until his breathing once again became steady. Her hand brushed against his gleaming black hair, and her fingers closed around the edges of the leather. Roslin bit her lower lip as she began to ease it from his face.

A hand shot up and grasped her wrist with a strength that made her gasp. Two burning golden eyes stared at her with a murderous glint shining from within, his skin suddenly cold to the touch. For a moment they stayed, unmoving, in that position until he dropped her hand.

"Get your clothes on, Chris…_mademoiselle,"_ he hissed, climbing out of the bed without even so much as a look back. Roslin chest heaved with utter fear of the man…and a twinge of disappointment. _I do not give up so easily, monsieur,_ she thought bitterly to herself.

He left, and Roslin picked up a silk robe from the floor of the room (she would find out whose it was later, she mused), enveloping her body in its warmth. It was not until then that she realized that he had almost called her Christine in his moment of frustration. And then she remembered that once again the night before he had called out the name into the shadows.

_Christine…_

She shivered, wrapping the robe tighter around herself, and walked out of the room, locking the door behind her.


	5. In My Mind, in My Soul

**A/N: **_Just a quick side note here- I actually did my research for this first part, and I'm happy to announce that it does, in fact, make sense. William Wordsworth, the author of the poem I use, was born in England in 1770, dying in 1850, the same year the movie takes place. The poem portrayed here is called "The Solitary Reaper."_

…_Sorry, just wanted to brag about my commitment to this story. Carry on, and cheerio!_

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* * *

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_I don't know how to take this,  
I don't see why he moves me.  
He's a man; he's just a man…_

_**I Don't Know How to Love Him, **Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Jesus Christ Superstar**_

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* * *

**_

_**IN MY MIND, IN MY SOUL**_

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* * *

**_

"_No nightingale did ever chant more welcome notes to weary bands…"_ Christine's lips moved along with the words, her eyes trailing languidly over the lines from the book that lay flaccidly upon her lap as she sat on the ledge beside her window. She had found the novel buried in her suitcase, tucked away amongst her garments, nestled beneath her diary. A book of poetry by William Wordsworth…a volume Erik had given her so many years ago… She shook her head. Two…it had been but two years ago…

"_A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard in the springtime from the cuckoo bird."_ The rain drilled a constant rhythm into her head, pounding endlessly at her senses, slowly beating her into submission. Gradually, the whole of her body began to throb dully in harmony to the relentless pulsing, the rushing of blood against her eardrums, the thumping of her heartbeat. She put a shaking hand to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut.

"_I listened, motionless and still; And as I mounted up the hill, the music in my heart I bore…"_ The air seemed to have become lodged in her throat; she took a few heaving, breathy gasps. Her tongue glided over her lips again and again, bringing moisture back to her mouth. Christine brought her knees to her chest, hugging her body tightly as the book slid slowly to the ledge beside her. Glancing down at it, her gaze passed over the last line.

"_The music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more."_ She glared at the novel beside her, her eyes sharp and fiery. Her hands tightened their grip on her arms, and she turned to look out the window. Rain dribbled like tears down the frail sheet of glass, and she watched as the drops seemed to pursue each other in a race to reach the bottom, sliding effortlessly across the pane. There was nothing to be seen past the window; the darkness allowed only her reflection to be visible. Staring into her own eyes, she pressed her fingers to the glass. The eyes were not the same…they were darker, hollow…empty.

With a low cry of frustration, she took the book up in her hand and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud, a few loose pages scattering about the floor. Christine turned back to the window, but she watched the volume out of the corner of a narrowed eye. It simply sat, silent and unmoving…taunting her. Sighing, she buried her face in her hands. She had not packed that book…she had made a special effort not to even _look_ at it since…

Since…

He was alive. He was alive, not rotting away in a cellar or a forgotten alley… Christine shuddered, hugging her body tightly. She could still see his eyes…every fleck of golden dust that shimmered in his irises. And his voice, beckoning, pleading, sobbing, still echoed in the back of her thoughts, haunting her more vividly than the countless dreams that plagued her night after night. God help her, she could still taste him on her lips…

No.

Christine shook her head, mentally cursing herself. With a little difficulty, she filled her mind with images of her husband…visions of their wedding and his perfect smile as he watched her approach the altar…memories of their first night together, nestled safely in the warmth of her beloved, her one _true_ beloved… Her eyes closed as she felt his arms encircle her, and she leaned her head back onto his bare chest… She gazed up at him, his eyes filled with all the love one man could hold, his mask gleaming in the moonlight-

She sat up quickly, brushing off his unseen presence. Her shoulders trembled slightly, her breath quick and heavy, and she wiped her hand across her sweating brow. The memories were a thousand times clearer than they had been even a few days ago, now that she knew… They kept playing and replaying, over and over, before her eyes, taunting her.

Crushing her hands against her ears, she tried in vain to silence the velvet purr of his voice, his murmuring whisper in her ear. God, what was he doing to her? What was he doing?

Christine snorted cynically. She knew what he was doing…he was doing whores. She closed her eyes to block out the sickening images that bombarded her thoughts, and she tried to fight down the bile that was slowly rising in her throat. It didn't work. Clutching the bedside tightly with her hands, she doubled over and gagged on the air that had caught in her throat. And still she saw him, thrashing about in the sheets with a moaning, screeching little _bitch _of a girl. She hated them! She hated them all for…for…

For doing their jobs…jobs that Erik had requested. She wrapped herself in a blanket that sat at the edge of her bed, settling down onto the cold wooden floor, clutching her knees to her chest. He hired them; he _paid_ them to rob him of everything…his beauty, his passion, his dark, ethereal majesty… Everything about him that made her love him…

Christine flinched as the thought crossed her mind. She didn't love him…she didn't love him… She had her wonderful, perfect, selfless husband waiting for her at home. Erik could do what he wanted…it was the least she could do, to leave his memory in peace, after that night…

Frowning to herself, Christine reached towards the book that lay in a heap on the floor beside her. Flipping through the pages, she found the poem she had been reading before.

_The music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more._

She was interrupted by a loud banging at her bedroom door.

* * *

"I'll pay you fifty francs extra if you play all night, monsieur. We're having a bit of a party here this evening, and I doubt the guests will want to be leaving before midnight." Erik scowled and glanced at the piano in the corner before turning back to Madame. She gave him a wide, gap-toothed grin. "I know you're a bit tired, monsieur…and with good reason. I wouldn't be surprised if half the fucking hotel heard your girl squeal and groan last night…and the bedsprings…" Madame gave a low whistle, and Erik glared at the floor, jaw clenched tightly. "I'm surprised the bed didn't give way." She smirked. "Just goes to show, we only have the _best_ here, monsieur. You can count on that." Wiping her hands on her apron, she winked at him, a leer crossing her lips.

"Double it," he murmured, staring at her intently. The shadows in the room allowed for the cloak to cast his eyes in darkness, and Erik watched, amused, as Madame's gaze narrowed.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, double the price. I'll be playing twice as long as usual, so I'll be expecting twice as much as I normally receive for my services." He crossed his arms beneath his cloak, and for a moment, they stared fiercely at each other, silently daring the other to break the gaze. Madame finally looked down at her hands, picking at some dirt beneath her fingernails.

"Done."

Erik smirked, his chin tilting up in a gesture of arrogant dominance. "I'm glad to see we've come to an agreement, Madame." He made a low, mocking bow and disappeared in the swirl of his cape. Madame looked after, lips pursed, before returning to the kitchen.

Taking his seat on the bench behind the piano, Erik removed a thick bundle of sallow yellow parchment from his silver-lined cloak. Lines of blotted ink were scratched upon the pages, the music bars slanted and chaotic in his hurried scrawl. He sat the papers on the stand before him, peering at his own handwriting carefully. Taking the tip of his right hand glove in his fingers, he pulled the black leather from his skin in a single fluid, sensual movement. He did the same with his left hand, and then he stared thoughtfully at his own naked hands, flexing them with careful grace. His fingers rested on the ivories, and he caressed the keys in warm, gentle silence. The eyes behind the mask seemed to glow in soft candlelight, and in the stillness, music played in the back of his mind.

Erik glanced at the page in front of him. It was an old Persian folk song he had rewritten during his time in the Shah's court. Over the past few years he had found himself coming back to it, making a few additions, amending his work until he could proclaim it perfection. For the moment, he was satisfied.

His eyes drifted to a corner of parchment that stuck out from beneath the bundle. Half the title was visible from its skewed position in the pile, and Erik pursed his lips as he stared at the lines. It was a piece he had deliberately placed at the bottom of his works, meant to be forgotten and yet always in his mind.

The notes had been inscribed in red ink… They might as well have been written in blood.

He closed his eyes and let a deep sigh escape his lips before he began the folksong. And while the early guests of Madame's festivity listened to the dark tunes of a Persian night, Erik heard only the sweet, haunting voice of his Aminta singing softly in his head.

* * *

"She won't agree to it… You _know_ she won't… What madness are you up to, Roslin?"

"Hush, you little fool!" Roslin hissed, eyes gleaming thoughtfully. Fantine's lips snapped shut, and she watched the woman who had been like her mentor as she raised her fist to the door. Roslin's gaze softened, and a light smile crossed her face. "You'll ruin the surprise."

She pounded loudly at the door before them, and Fantine glanced over her shoulder. The newer wing of the hotel was still a bit uncomfortable for her; normally, she spent all her time on the other side of the building. Madame never tried to cover up the differences between the areas… This part was for the richer, more eloquent guests; the other was where men were too drunk or too preoccupied to notice the peeling walls and dripping ceilings. Fantine gazed around at the ornate décor, feeling very out of place in her short, revealing attire. "Why isn't she answering?" she whispered to Roslin, eyes wide.

Roslin snorted indignantly, one hand planted firmly on her hip. "Probably fell asleep again, the little wench." Despite her insensitive words, she put on a distant, affectionate smile. "The girl had a nasty shock." Fantine stared up at her questioningly, but without answering her unspoken inquiry, Roslin opened the door and stepped inside Christine's room.

Fantine almost collided into Roslin's back as she followed her in. Roslin stopped in the middle of the doorway, eyebrow raised inquisitively, as she stared at the huddled mass of blanket on the floor. Christine stared back at them, face blank. "Did we catch you at a bad time, mam'selle?" Roslin asked softly, kneeling down beside her and balancing herself on the balls of her feet. She pulled back the blanket and brought Christine to her feet.

As she watched the curious exchange between them, Fantine was struck, not for the first time, at Roslin's fickle, impulsive emotions. Only moments before had she called the girl a "little wench," and now she was treating her like her own daughter! Fantine shook her head in bemused disbelief before taking Christine's arm and sitting her down upon the bed.

"What were you doing on the floor, m'dear?" she asked, untangling the mass of brown curls that fell limply to the middle of Christine's back. "You have a perfectly fine bed…"

Roslin gave a low chuckle. "For goodness sake, Fantine, the poor girl's _bored!_ Look at her, being cooped up her for nearly a day…" She snapped her fingers, eyes brightening.

"Roslin, I…"

"Don't interrupt," she scolded, taking Christine's hand in her own. "Madame is throwing a most wonderful party tonight, inviting all our friends from the lower circles of life. Dancing, music…" Her gaze grew soft as she pictured the events about to unfold. "It's been such a long time since I've danced…" The glazed look of her eyes vanished, and she turned back to Christine. "You simply _must_ come, my dear. I won't take no for an answer."

Christine stared at her, eyes wide. "No…" she murmured, shaking her head, her hand at her throat. "No, Roslin, I can't… What if…?" She licked her lips in an attempt to moisten her drying mouth. "The man…the man you spoke of this morning… He could show up, and…"

Roslin waved her hand evasively. "He won't be there. He hasn't been here in _ages…_ I really doubt he'll be coming back at all…" Fantine's gaze flew to Roslin, but she carefully avoided making eye contact. "The last I heard, he was heading off to Portugal, Persia… Something with a _p…_" She tapped two long, elegant fingers against her lips, pondering thoughtfully, before shrugging carelessly. "I can't remember. All I know is, he won't be there."

Placing her palm at her cheek, Christine gazed between the two. "I don't think so, Roslin. I…I have a bit of a headache." She put a hand to her temple, grimacing in imaginary pain.

Pulling a small vial of golden liquid from her tightly corseted chemise, Roslin placed the glass in Christine's hand and curled her fingers around it. "Take this, then," she offered, glancing at Fantine and smiling faintly. "It will help, trust me. I use it all the time."

Eyes kept cautiously on Roslin, Christine watched the amber fluid swirl about in the glass before unplugging it. Holding it up to her mouth, she took a brief swig. Almost immediately, she began coughing and spluttering, her hand flying to her mouth. Fantine pounded her fist on Christine's back, all the while her eyes shooting daggers at Roslin. After a moment, Christine sat back, patches of red appearing on her cheeks.

"Do you think me naïve enough to never have tried brandy before?" she exploded, glaring at Roslin, who, in turn, shrugged indifferently. "What were you thinking…that you would get me _drunk_, and then you would take me to your damned party?"

Roslin smiled innocently. "It was worth a try, wasn't it?" Her smile was utterly infuriating.

Fantine sighed. "Why don't you just come for a bit, my dear? What would it hurt? I even have some clothes you could wear so you wouldn't…well, stand out so much in our crowd."

Christine glanced nervously between them, her anger ebbing away with each passing second, replaced instead with growing apprehension. "I couldn't…you're shorter than me, Fantine…your clothes wouldn't fit. And…and…" She was running out of excuses.

Roslin, however, would not fall for the bait. "Perfect! If Fantine is shorter, her dresses will show off your lovely legs." She patted Christine on the knee, who frowned sharply.

"I'm a married woman, mademoiselle. My husband… He would not approve."

Another knock sounded from the outside of Christine's door, and an instant later, Madame walked in, arms folded across her chest. She flashed them all an overly-sweet smile before turning to Christine. "I hope I did not just hear you turning down my invitation to my party, mademoiselle. I would be highly disappointed, perhaps even _insulted,_ if you did not attend." She glanced at Roslin from over Christine's shoulder, eyes glinting.

Christine blushed lightly, gazing at the floor. "No, I didn't turn it down, I simply…"

"Good!" Madame exclaimed, taking Christine suddenly by the arm and pulling her away. "My company has started to arrive, but you still have time to change into one of Fantine's old dresses…God knows she has plenty." Madame escorted a protesting Christine out the door, taking the briefest of moments to look over her shoulder and nod knowingly to Roslin.

Christine's stammers of objection were still perceptible when Fantine turned to Roslin and hissed, "What are you playing at? You know perfectly well _he_ will be here this evening…you just had him last night, for heaven's sake!" She took a deep breath, crossing her arms irritably, before glancing back up at her companion. "Their encounter will be unavoidable…what exactly are you trying to do, Roslin? What can be gained through your meddling?"

Roslin's eyes followed the two women's figures as they proceeded down the corridor. Smirking broadly, she turned back to Fantine. "My dear," she began, placing her hand on Fantine's shoulder. "It's been rather dull around here, haven't you noticed?" Her calculating, devious grin widened as she glanced after Christine's slender, retreating back. "I thought it would be rather entertaining to spice things up a bit… Wouldn't you agree?"

* * *

The air had become stiflingly heavy with the thick smell of cigar and alcohol. Conversation buzzed in his ears as he strained to become lost in the simple melody that flowed from his fingertips. His jaw clenched dangerously, his palms sweaty, as he started towards the climax of the song. A dull throbbing sensation had begun to swell with his head, but the pounding only increased his anger, which, in turn, created a crescendo in his music…

A figure paused above the piano, and Erik felt her eyes before he looked up. A girl stood there, her hair so black it shined blue in the candlelight as it melted down her back in a wave of darkness. Her eyes were bright green, and they glinted eerily through the shadows.

"Hello," she purred, and almost instantly Erik smelled the cheap wine on her breath. He nodded in acknowledgement, refusing to break his connection with his music. When she did not leave, he glanced up at her questioningly, his fingers still dancing across the keys.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice deep and hypnotic. Her eyes became even more glazed at his words, his spell unintentionally cast. He frowned. "Is there something you need?"

The music played on.

The girl nodded slowly, her gaze locked on him. She murmured her response, but the sound drowned it out. It didn't matter…from the sultry sway of her hips and seductive smirk on her mouth, Erik had an idea as to the concept of her reply. His lips pursed, frustrated, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the noticeable swell of her breasts above her tightly corseted waist.

The combined effects of the wine and his haunting voice had caused her face to relax and soften, her eyes glassing over. She laid a hand on the collar of his coat, and Erik stiffened beneath her touch. This was the absolute last thing he needed at the moment…not now, not after last night… He closed his eyes, concentrating. Erik wanted to send her away, to cast her off to her crowd of whores and pimps, but he found all he could say was a gasping, _"Please."_ The word flew from his mouth in a single breath, and the girl's lips curled into a smile, her gaze darkening. Her fingers worked their way up his neck and into his hair, moving rhythmically against him with a caressing, soothing motion. His hands began to fumble on the piano keys, stiffening as he became more and more distracted…

The song ended abruptly, the silence sudden and powerful, only to be broken by a different melody. Erik peered at the girl from beneath his furrowed brow, watching the music take its toll. Her body became instantly rigid in response to the song he had vowed never to play again, her hand flying from his neck to the hollow of her neck, her fingers making small circles on her skin. Lower lip quivering, she lowered herself down to him with graceful ease.

No…this was not what was supposed to happen. She straddled his left leg, her eyes fixed on Erik's face. No, she was supposed to leave, run to someone else…anyone else… She should clamp her hands over her ears and tremble at the strange, invading sound, not…this…

Her fingers snaked up his leg, and he looked into her eyes. Her face was blank, emotionless, empty… He stood up hastily, and the girl stumbled backwards. There were a few moments of tentative, anxious silence as the people within earshot turned to stare at the enigmatic figure in black. Erik looked around, eyes burning with a golden glow, and conversations began to resume, hesitant at first, before the room was once again filled with the ringing drone of drunken prattle. Chest heaving, he turned back to the girl. She gaped at him, lips trembling, but before Erik could say a word, he was interrupted by Madame.

"_What have I told you about playing that kind of music in here?"_ she hissed, taking him by the sleeve. Erik glared down at her, eyes narrowed. "That…music…it doesn't take well with the public. It…it doesn't appeal." Madame turned to the girl, taking her gently by the wrist. "Go back to the kitchens, Madeleine. I'll be with you shortly."

_Madeleine…Madeleine…_

"_What was your mother's name?"_

"…_Madeleine…"_

Erik shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. The room had begun to take on a rather reddish tone, and he blinked repeatedly. He shook his head once more, then started for the door when someone caught him by the cloak. Whirling around, he saw Madame.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, scowling heavily. "You still have four more hours to put in!" He yanked himself away from her grasp and pushed himself through the crowd. There was only one thought on his mind…getting out of there… "You won't be paid a bloody cent if you don't get back here!" Madame shrieked over the noise.

Glancing over his shoulder, he yelled, "I don't want your goddamned money!" Erik pulled his cloak tighter to his body and shoved his way through the hoards of people. He closed his eyes momentarily, squeezing his eyelids shut. He turned back just in time to bump rather hastily into someone. Collecting himself, he glanced down to see a small figure fall to the ground in front of him. She looked up at him with wide, honey brown eyes.

"Ah, monsieur," said a voice beside her. "I see you've met my lovely young companion." Erik heard Roslin's silky words, but he failed to acknowledge them. He could barely manage to breathe…or think…let alone answer. "Allow me to introduce Christine."


	6. Burning Boats

_**A/N:** This chapter's a bit short...but I've already started chapter seven, so woot!_

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_On this night of a thousand stars,  
Let me take you to heaven's door.**  
**_

_**On This Night of A Thousand Stars, **Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Evita**_

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* * *

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_**BURNING BOATS**_

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…_And in the flickering candlelight, his hand was elusively normal; it looked warm and strong and quite curiously reassuring, the hand not of a monster and a murderer, but of a gentle, loving man, who waited with infinite patience for one little sign of hope…_

For a moment that contained a thousand eternities, she stared at the hand that was extended out to her, perfectly still. The deafening noise in the room had been reduced to an obscure roar in her ears, and with dawning apprehension, she looked up into those eyes.

The expression on his face was so foreign to her that for an instant, it took her back to the only time she remembered having seen it, the time she had betrayed the fragile boundary of trust before the world and revealed a broken man, a time that had haunted her every day, and at night, in her every dream… It was a look of utter disbelief, an appearance of shock that rooted him to the very spot in which he stood, illuminating his masked face despite the shadows that danced across his eyes. And during the few brief seconds in which they stared at each other, Christine was met with the familiar yet hypnotic jolt that burst up her spine, a controlling, eerie tremor that caused her fingers to tremble vehemently with the overwhelming instinct to accept his outstretched hand.

Erik closed his eyes and turned his face away, visibly berating himself. When he turned back to her, he betrayed no emotion. Whatever shock or horror lay within the regions of the mind behind the eyes, he made no distinction in those two glowing orbs. His breath, fast and irregular, flew from his lips in short bursts. But his eyes showed nothing…they were blank, expressionless, empty. Christine stared at his hand, her body shaking uncontrollably as shivers danced up and down her back, before reaching out and touching her fingers to his palm.

She still had yet to refuse such an act on his part.

Wrapping his fingers around her own, he pulled her up with effortless ease. Her own eyes had grown large and glassy, and for an unwilling moment Erik was taken back to their first encounter, the start of everything… How utterly innocent and powerless she looked, her childish yet strangely seductive lips quivering, their gazes locked securely on each other.

"Christine…" he murmured, his eyes coming alive in an instant. They glowed with a blaze Christine was all too familiar with, and at the sound of his voice, she drew a shuddering breath. He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them softly, his eyes never leaving her face. His mouth lingered on her skin a few moments longer than was customary, and as he gazed into her eyes, Christine was met with the sudden, intuitive impulse to hide her soul from him…for he could see all that went on inside the darkest regions of her mind…

"Er…Erik…" she whispered throatily, chest rising and falling heavily. Neither saw Roslin as she slowly melted into the crowd, glancing over her shoulder as she disappeared. Erik's Adam's apple bobbed hesitantly in his throat, and it took all his effort to resist the urge to bash his head against the nearest wall in response to his own unforgivable foolishness. _What are you doing?_ he screamed desperately at himself. _She isn't real…_ he thought silently as his thumb delicately brushed over her tremulous white knuckles.

_She isn't real…_ Erik slowly drew her by the hand as he stepped out into the throng of dancing guests, his pace unhurried and dynamic. They stared at each other; neither daring to trust the steady, spellbinding beat of their own hearts. He had not even noticed a cloaked figure in the corner take a seat on the piano bench, paging studiously through Erik's work.

_She isn't real…_ His hands found their way to the curvaceous arc of her hips, and he felt her tense beneath his ravenous, demanding touch. The hypnotized glaze of her eyes began to fade, and she blinked rapidly, glancing nervously around at the crowd. Turning back to him, her mouth open as if to protest his actions, he gently placed a single, ungloved finger to her lips, the warmth of her skin causing his eyelids to flutter shut.

_Oh God, she **is** real…_

When the music started up again from the piano, his eyes snapped open, mouth agape. Erik and Christine stared at each other, thoughts frozen. The song…the song could not have been better chosen if the Devil himself sat upon the piano bench. The people around them molded instantly into their partners' bodies; there was something about the melody that had a way of lighting desires aflame, causing any and all reason to flee. Christine's heart hammered against her breast, the logical part of her mind shrieking its incoherent protests as she remained, motionless, in the middle of the room, staring at him.

_You have truly gone mad, my friend, _Erik thought to himself as he watched her. _Truly mad._ She had not changed, not in the least, he noted pensively as he began to circle her with slow, dominating majesty, much like a hawk did before it swooped down upon its unsuspecting prey. Beautiful…always beautiful. And here she was, before him, at…at…

A brothel? A _whorehouse?_

The realization struck him like a blow to the gut. The color must have drained from his already pale cheeks, for Christine noticed a difference in him and flinched suddenly, taking a couple steps back. No, no, no…he was losing her… In just a few short strides, he had grasped her by the waist, staring down at her with a hungry fire in his eyes. Good Lord, he thought as his gaze flowed over her, she even _looked_ like a whore, donned in a dress that was obviously too short in length and too full in cup for her tiny frame.

The rhythms of the seductive chorus began, and a sweeping surge of yearning literally cascaded down upon its audience. Erik wove his fingers around Christine's thin, delicate neck, leaning towards her until his breath gently caressed her jaw. He felt her chest heave violently against his own, each curve of her form accented against his hardened body. As he stared into her glazed, deep brown eyes, he realized with a dawning comprehension she had absolutely no conscious understanding of what she was doing.

A moment later, he concluded that he didn't, either.

Her leg found its way around his thigh, the heel of her shoe digging forcefully into his skin. He inhaled sharply, and then let out a deep sigh against her cheek. Christine's gaze had taken on a rather glassy look, her eyes unfocused and half closed as her hands grasped his shoulders. Whether it was the influence of his music or the animalistic instinct his mere presence cast over her, she found that still, after two years, she had no power to resist it. His hand crept to the small of her back, and with one violent movement, he pulled her small body against his own. The fingers of his other hand went to her face, gently caressing the dip of her temple and the rise of her high cheekbones.

Ever so slowly, Erik brought her body away from himself, extending her into a graceful dip as his hand remained against her back. His hand gradually fell from her face to her neck, sliding, flowing, until his fingers danced across the pale smoothness of her chest. He took a deep breath, then brought his touch to the rise of her breasts and lingered there.

Erik felt her inhale sharply, and when he glanced down at her face, he saw her eyelids had flickered shut, her mouth parted slightly as she gave a soft, guttural groan. Her back arched suddenly, ecstatically, as he pressed harder and harder against her, and he brought his other hand to the pale thigh that was exposed through the angled cut of her dress. After a moment his fingers ran slowly down the length of her firm abdomen and wrapped around her hips, covetously savoring the pulsing beat of her skin beneath his touch.

He pulled Christine back up to him and pressed her to his chest, clutching her firmly in his dominating embrace and grasping both her thin, fragile wrists in his hands. With one smooth, sinuous movement, Erik brought one of her arms around her body, over her head, until she stood with her back pressed solidly against his broad chest. His cheek rested gently against her brunette locks, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, reveling in the subtle aroma of her hair as she leaned on him. He rocked rhythmically with her to the throbbing cadence, pushing his body into the curve of her back, his eyes drawing shut.

Christine's mind had grown hazy, incoherent, and as she gazed beneath half-closed eyelids out onto the other guests, she believed them to be an audience watching the first performance of _Don Juan Triumphant._ Vaguely she realized that Erik's mouth rested against the curve of her shoulder, and she licked her dry lips as he trailed his fingers across the bare upper half of her chest. He ran his lips up the side of her neck until they reached her ear.

"So tell me, Madame _Vicomtess…"_ he hissed darkly, accenting each syllable of the last word by pushing his lips harder against her skin. She tensed beneath his touch, her eyes flying open. "What did your husband do to land you here, a place that God has so conveniently forgotten?" Christine writhed against him, turning herself so that she looked him in the face. The more she struggled, the firmer his grasp on her became. "Perhaps he is facing economic difficulties… He has surely spent every last franc on his attempts to make his _precious wife_ as happy as humanly possible." He smirked against her ear, eyes glittering brightly in the shadows. "Ironic, isn't it? In trying to build you Heaven on earth, he has condemned you to the depths of Hell." Erik paused, listening to the frantic bursts of air that escaped her mouth. "Or was this your decision? Did he not satis-"

Erik was interrupted by Christine's open palm as it collided with his uncovered cheek. The resounding smack was met with unmoving and utter silence. His face was whipped to the side, and for a moment, he was motionless, deep red marks rising on his skin. When he turned back to face her, he saw that her eyes had lost their glassy quality. She looked as if she could not believe what she had done and was still trying to figure out the reason why. She met his demanding stare, and slowly her gaze hardened and grew dark. After a single moment's hesitation, Christine broke the heated connection of their glances and pushed her way into the on-looking crowd, hugging herself tightly as she hurried away.

Erik watched her retreating back, his face expressionless. A streaking bolt of lightning illuminated the scene through the long glass window, and once more it began to rain.

* * *

Christine flung herself onto her bed, covering her face with her thin, trembling hands. Even through the darkness of her eyelids, she could see his glowing yellow eyes staring down at her through the shadows. She wrenched off Fantine's little black and crimson dress, and with a groan of effort, she threw it into the corner of the room with all the force she could muster.

Shivering, she retrieved a pink velvet robe from her wardrobe…a present from Raoul. Raoul.

Raoul…

She murmured the name over and over again to herself in her head, but all that remained in her mind was the burning sensation of Erik's long, beautiful hands at her waist and cheek and breasts, the tender warmth of his lips as he pressed them to her knuckles…

"Damn him!" she swore, her voice thick and hoarse. "Damn him to Hell!"

A resounding creak echoed from the doorway behind her, and Christine whirled around.

* * *

The music started up again after a few moments, a different song than before. The bouncing brunette curls had disappeared into the swarm of dancing guests, and Erik stood, still as a statue, in the center of the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small head of mousy brown hair streaked with gray, and in a flash he took off towards her.

"Madame!"

Turning sharply, Madame stood on the tips of her toes in order to see over the many heads of her company. She glimpsed the familiar shape of Erik as he hurried towards her, his cape twirling madly behind him. A quick-witted greeting was readily prepared on the tip of her tongue, but she faltered when he caught her roughly by the arm. Madame glared up at him only to find his eyes quite preoccupied, scanning the room in a hurried frenzy.

His gaze landed on Madame, his grasp on her arm loosening. His heavy breaths were fleeting and irregular, and when he finally spoke, his voice was nothing more than an impatient, hurried whisper. "Madame…there was a girl here…someone new…her name is Christine…"

Madame opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with the wave of his hand.

"How long has she been here?"

She bit her lower lip, brow furrowed. "Only about a day and a half, monsieur, but…"

Erik sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair. "I will pay you to never have her…provide services for another man…again." Chest heaving, he stared at her pleadingly.

Madame blinked, eyebrows cocked questioningly as she watched him. "Monsieur, I…"

"I have one hundred thousand francs, Madame." Reaching inside his ebony cloak, he withdrew a small crimson coin purse from his belt. "Please." She stopped arguing instantly, eyes fixated greedily on the handbag. "If you want more, you can have it."

She hesitated for only a moment. "Done." She snatched the money from him eagerly, spilling a few coins out into her quivering palm. A small smirk made its way onto her thin mouth, the gold shimmering in the glassiness of her narrowed eyes. Madame glanced up at him furtively, lips pursed, as he watched her impassively through a dark, calculating gaze. "Of course, monsieur, you'll need to tell her all this yourself." They stared at each other wordlessly, an unspoken knowledge passing instantly between them: If Erik did not do it himself; Madame would not do it for him. Christine would not find out.

Erik's lips twitched dangerously, but he gave an abrupt nod and turned away from her. "Where is she?" he asked over his shoulder, the loathing evident in his strained voice.

Madame gave a short jerk of her head, silently indicating the stairs to his left. "Last room on the right, monsieur." Without another word, he took off through the crowd. Her eyes followed his figure for a moment as he made his way to the stone stairwell of the higher-class apartments. Smiling darkly to herself, she turned back to her guests.


	7. The End of Innocence

_**A/N:** And now…the fun part! Let the games begin! Sorry about the horrible cliffhangers with which I've been leaving you, my wonderful readers. …They're just so much fun!_

_**P.S:** I was in the mood for drawing, so I whipped up two scenes from my phic…I have no idea why; I suppose I was just avoiding the dreaded summer work I still have to start. Anyways, for anyone who has a bit of time on their hands, the links are in my profile.  
_

_**P.P.S: **Again, much thanks to Julie, my Angel of Phiction! -Hums "Angel of Music" a bit off-key-_

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_Deep in my heart I'm concealing  
Things that I'm longing to say.  
Scared to confess what I'm feeling,  
Frightened you'll slip away…_

_**You Must Love Me, **Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Evita**_

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**THE END OF INNOCENCE**

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The party was beginning to wane; guests left the hotel in large groups, shrieking in bouts of intoxicated laughter, while others stayed behind in clusters of couples, lowering themselves onto couches and large chairs or sneaking up into the apartments on the second floor. Roslin stepped carefully over a few unconscious bodies as they lay in drunken heaps on the floor, their clothes soiled with alcohol and perspiration. She caught sight of Madame on the other side of the room engaged in playful, vivacious conversation.

A quick jerk of her head was all Roslin needed to catch her attention. With a brusque wave of her hand, Madame bluntly ended her discussion with the young gypsy man in front of her and pushed her way towards Roslin, her eyes darting around at her exiting visitors.

"I saw you speaking with our masked friend, Madame," Roslin muttered nonchalantly as they slid into their seats, sitting on opposite ends of the small circular table.

A small smirk crept its way onto Madame's lips, and she placed a slightly pudgy hand beneath her chin. "Is that so startling to you, my dear? He's one of our most loyal customers, and…"

"He hurried off towards the east wing," Roslin interrupted, watching Madame from over the dipping orange flame of the candlestick that rested on the table between them; the glow reflected in her gleaming eyes. "Did you direct him to the young Vicomtess?"

The grin on Madame's mouth widened, and she sat back in her chair complacently. "Perhaps. Did you arrange their little 'chance meeting' on the dance floor this evening?"

Roslin's black eyes glittered in the shadows. "Perhaps."

"And yet you seem surprised that he pursued her to her quarters." Madame's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "What do you know that I don't, Roslin? I can only stand secrets if I'm included in them."

A moment of contemplative silence, then: "Surely you've heard the whispers, Madame." Roslin smiled secretly to herself as Madame cocked an eyebrow. She was quite sure this was the most painful torture she could administer upon the meddlesome manager. "You make it your business to know everything about everyone, especially when it involves that man…so how is it that you don't know what he cries out every night?" Madame leaned forwards impatiently, and Roslin savored her temporary dominance in the conversation. "Perhaps I shouldn't tell you; he may possibly appreciate me keeping it quiet for him. He might even reward me in some way…" she finished thoughtfully.

Frowning, Madame rested her head on the back of her seat once more. "If that's how you want to play the game, Roslin, then I suppose I won't share my information about the Vicomtess with you." She examined her with the indolent gaze of a cat, the eagerness vanishing from her face, replaced with a smug expression of supremacy. "An eye for an eye, my dear."

Roslin pursed her lips, irritated by this comeback. She paused for a moment, and then inclined her head, silently accepting her relinquished hold on Madame. "He calls out her name."

Madame furrowed her brow. "What?"

"At night, whenever he takes a girl to his room…he calls out Christine's name. During the climax, right at the end…" She gave a concluding shrug. "It happens every time." Madame remained silent, rubbing her thumb over her chin. "You really didn't know?"

"If I had, would I have been so eager to extract this information from you?" she snapped. Roslin fell quiet, watching her vigilantly. After a moment, Madame looked up. "How old would you say the Vicomtess is, Roslin?" she asked, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

Roslin raised her eyebrows, slightly taken aback by the question. She blinked, settling herself more comfortably in her seat. "I don't know…twenty-four, twenty-five…?"

"She's eighteen."

"Eighteen?" Roslin repeated in surprise. She formed a mental picture of the girl in her mind, going over her appearance with studious care. "It's…it's her eyes…they're too…"

"Old…yes, I know," Madame finished. "I noticed it also." She pulled a small flask of whiskey from a hidden pocket and took a swig of it before continuing. Then, as quickly as she had posed her question, she changed the subject. "Roslin, in your own personal opinion, what do you think the connection between the Vicomtess and 'our masked friend' is?" Roslin could tell from her tone that her question was not posed out of mere curiosity; Madame's inquiry was leading up to a point, and they were nearing it.

"Former lovers, I would imagine."

Madame smiled shrewdly. "But apparently she's been a Vicomtess for two years now, meaning she was married when she was sixteen. And to my understanding, she had been courting her now-husband for some time before their marriage." She leaned even closer to Roslin, her voice dropping in pitch. "How many former lovers do you think a girl has before the age of fifteen? And one that could arouse such a reaction from her, at that?"

Roslin frowned thoughtfully. "An affair?" The deepening smirk on Madame's face served as a response. "An affair…" she echoed before turning back to Madame and grinning. "And didn't you mention earlier today that the Vicomte himself is on his way back? Preparing to bring his sick and helpless wife back to their million-franc estate, isn't he?"

Madame nodded. "Due to arrive sometime this evening, later on tonight at the latest." They exchanged a look of eager anticipation. "My dear Roslin, I do believe we're becoming spoiled. A scandal of upper society taking place in my very own hotel…"

"And don't forget about the events this past evening…the way that girl took a swing at him!" Roslin shook her head in disbelief. "Well, you've been in the presence of that man, Madame…striking him across the face is probably the last impulse that would cross your mind."

Sniggering, Madame stood from the table; Roslin followed suit, leaning down to blow out the candle as it dripped deep scarlet wax onto the wooden table. "Yes…" Madame agreed, leering teasingly. "I can think of a number of things you'd like to do to him first."

* * *

The hallway was infinitely different than the one to which he was accustomed. Luxurious scarlet carpeting lined polished wooden walls. The wallpaper was not peeling, and the ceiling did not drip. Various portraits hung in straight and well-kept frames, their eyes peering down at him through narrowed gazes, following his back as he continued down the corridor. 

Erik found himself standing outside her room as if he had appeared there instantly. He noticed that the door was open a crack and candlelight flickered around the edges. Suddenly, her voice sounded from her bedroom, choked and strained as if she were sobbing.

"Damn him to Hell!"

He stepped inside noiselessly, his cape wrapping itself around his body. Christine sat at her dresser, clothed in a thin pink dressing gown, eyes closed. His foot treaded on a piece of uneven flooring, causing a low creak to resonate through the room. She looked up into her mirror and saw his reflection meeting her eyes in the glass. Standing abruptly, she heard her chair fall to the floor with a crash, followed moments later by silence.

Christine was still for an instant, hesitating under Erik's burning glance, before she bent to pick up her seat. The robe she had tied around her waist fell loose around her shoulder, exposing a bare white breast. His eyes were pulled to her uncovered flesh for just a moment, but he was well aware that Christine had seen the direction of his gaze. He turned his head to the side so that only his glowing white mask was visible, and he shut his eyelids as she fumbled uncoordinatedly with her garments. When he opened his burning golden eyes once more, they were locked securely on Christine's blushing face. His expression was blank and impassive, his lips drawn into a tight line beneath the mask.

"Don't waste your breath damning me to Hell, Madame," he murmured darkly, his eyes burning holes into her skin. Christine stared back at him…she blinked once, twice, then folded her arms over her chest and looked away. Her lack of response stirred a groundless anger within him, and in two strides he crossed both the room and the unspoken barrier between them, took her wrists into the iron grasp of his hands, and glared down at her.

"Considering these past two years, I've become convinced I already died in those cellars beneath the streets of Paris." Christine squeezed her eyes shut against his fiery tone and the soulless hiss in his voice, feeling the heat of his breath scorch the flesh of her cheek. "And now I'm serving out my eternal condemnation here in the pits of Hell on earth."

With a sudden, furious movement, he threw Christine's hands down and turned away from her, arms locked behind his back, taking a few moments to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice was cool and even, a drastic change that somehow seemed even more frightening than his uncontrollable anger. "And yet here you are, Vicomtess…a guest in Satan's innermost circle." He glanced over his shoulder, smiling sadistically. "In fact, your presence has reinstated my belief in God, for only He could torture me in such a terribly effective way. His sense of humor never ceases to amaze me."

"Please leave," she whispered hoarsely, her trembling hand clutched around the base of her neck. Erik turned to face her, watching as she tried to draw herself up to her full height. "Go!"

He took a few violent steps toward her, throwing his cape behind him furiously. "But I have paid handsomely for your services, my dear. I demand my expectations to be fulfilled."

Christine's eyes widened. "You truly think me a whore, Erik?" she murmured softly. He only gazed back at her wordlessly, mouth agape. "Do you?" she shrieked, putting her hands against his chest and shoving him backwards with all her strength. He took only a few steps away from her, but his eyes never left her face. They stared in silence at each other, when suddenly Christine let out a loud, barking laugh, tossing her head back so that her mane of brown curls bounced eagerly around her shoulders. "That would be wonderfully convenient for you, wouldn't it? How beautifully paradoxical for me to be caught in the grip of this harsh world…hanging from a noose, you might say." Erik remained motionless, staring at her through narrowed eyes, his hands beginning to curl into tight fists as she ranted.

"Yes, strung up by a metaphorical Punjab lasso in the basements of your figurative Opera House. How long do you wish me to dangle in order to satisfy your lust for revenge?"

Erik was breathing heavily through his flared nostrils, watching Christine intently with a livid rage she had all but forgotten. He had a thousand, a million words to say to her, each filled with biting, sarcastic fury ready on the tip of his tongue, but as he stared into her wide, moonlike eyes, turned bloodshot with unshed tears, he heard himself say, "That isn't fair…"

The silence in the room was unnerving as they gazed at each other, barely breathing, made speechless by his three simple words. All at once Erik knew the entire charade was a mistake…a horrible, ill-conceived mistake. Taking her by the hand, tasting her skin against his lips, bringing her into his arms, following her upstairs to her room…what a pathetic, miserable fool he had been! He stared at Christine with glassy, wild eyes before swinging around and hurrying for the door, his cloak fluttering madly behind him.

Erik had just reached out and touched the doorknob when her fingers closed around the bulk of his arm. He did not turn to face her; instead, he shut his eyes and prayed silently to a God whose existence he had denied for his entire life…prayed that he could just melt into the shadows as he had done so many times at the Opera House. He wished himself invisible or hidden or dead, but when she spoke, he knew his pleas had been in vain.

"Wait. Just…wait."

Without looking into her eyes, he glanced down at her small white fingers, wrapped so securely around his skin. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he glared down at her hand, trying desperately to hate it with every fiber of his strength. "I don't want your pity," he hissed. Damning himself for his own contemptible weakness, he turned around slowly to gaze down into her dark irises. "All I want is to be free of you, as you are so clearly free of me."

A bolt of lightning interrupted what would have been a moment of absolute stillness, followed seconds later by a crash of thunder. "Free of you?" she repeated softly, disbelief radiating from her glassy eyes. "Free of you? My God, Erik… Your voice, it has never left my mind!" Her chest heaved beneath the emotion that threatened to overflow. "I have had not a single instant of peace. I have heard you there, singing to me, haunting me…" Her voice heightened into an octave of near-hysterics, and she released his arm.

He turned back to her, eyes narrowed. "Yes, I suppose these past two years have been horribly draining for you. How utterly egotistical of me…" he murmured facetiously, eyebrow cocked. "I can imagine how terrible the life of a Vicomtess must be, married to your true love, having everything delivered to you on a silver platter." A tear trickled down her cheek, but her eyes began to develop an angry glint. "Do not treat me like a fool, my dear. You know as well as anyone the consequences of such a blunder."

"But you have not had to live with the burden of guilt for two years, Erik!" she cried desperately. "I will never pretend to know what horrors you have faced in your wretched lifetime, but I will not stand for my own remorse to be mocked as if it means nothing!"

Erik paused with his hand wrapped around the doorknob. "Guilt?" he repeated softly, his voice edged with a questioning uncertainty. "You regret the decision you made?"

Christine hugged her arms to her chest, looking away from his inquiring stare. "I love my husband very much, Erik. Very much. He…he is the most kind, understanding man I know."

He blinked. "But do you regret your choice?" She did not reply, and his jaw clenched tightly. With a sudden, furious growl, he took her by the shoulders and shoved her against the wall, her wrists pinned by the strength of his grasp. "Stop toying with me, Christine!" he snarled. "Do…you…regret it?" When she still remained silent, he took her hands in his own, feeling her fragile bones scrape against each other. A low grunt sounded from deep within him as he pulled apart the first few buttons of his thin dress shirt with one hand and pushed her fingers savagely to his chest, pressing her palm against his flesh. Christine squirmed frantically against him, unable to break the connection of their heated glance.

"Do you feel that? Do you?" he hissed darkly, her hand slipping across his hardened skin. She became still, and moments later, she felt the pulsing of his heart beneath her fingertips.

"Yes…" she whispered faintly, gazing at her hand clenched securely in his powerful grip.

Erik stared down at her expressionlessly, mouth drawn into a tight line beneath his mask. After a minute, he dropped his head, eyes closed in the abandonment of his fury. "It won't stop," he murmured softly. "I've tried and tried, but God damn this beating heart…it won't stop." He drew a deep, tremulous breath, releasing her hand from his grasp. It took him a few moments to realize that her fingers had not moved; they still rested gingerly upon his chest.

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but after an instant of indecision, decided against it. She stood before him, her back pressed against the wall, and Erik could not recall a time she had appeared so defenseless, so utterly vulnerable and exposed. She looked up at him with the frightened glance of a child, the overwhelming darkness of the room causing her eyes to take on an almost blackish tint. Erik's gaze traveled down her face, melting effortlessly over her flawless, pearl-like skin, until his eyes rested on her quivering mouth.

He had not remembered her lips looking so intensely red. They gleamed seductively in the night, glistening in the moonlight that streamed through the open window. Erik stared, mouth open slightly, his arms set squarely against the wall on either side of her shoulders.

Her hand still sat upon his chest, his heartbeat coursing through her body, infused in her breath.

Erik swallowed once and, inhaling deeply, leaned down towards her face. When they were a mere inch apart, he paused, and they stared at each other through the shadows, their breaths short and uneven. Then he lowered his mouth to hers, claiming her lips as his own.


	8. Crucifixion of a Monster

**A/N:** _ Nothing really to say, but I have a quick note for two of my reviewers:_

_**Mominator:** Now, did you really think I was going to be **that** predictable? ;) No, I have a few tricks up my sleeve…_

_**Hisinspiration: **Erik isn't as old as he was in Kay's Phantom, but not as young as he was in ALW…so I'm thinking early to mid-forties. Probably closer to the "mid" range._

_

* * *

_

_Never fool myself  
That my dreams will come true…_

_**Another Suitcase in Another Hall, **Andrew Lloyd Webber's **Evita**_

_**

* * *

**_

**CRUCIFIXION OF A MONSTER**

"Damn!"

The Vicomte's sudden outburst would have come as a surprise to François on any other day; that night, however, the young nobleman was simply voicing the frustrations François felt stirring within himself. He glanced up at the sky, an almost exact replica of the day before: Clouds coated the heavens in black, oblique clusters, and a few moments later, a lone raindrop fell from the sky and landed squarely on his nose. A crash of thunder exploded all around them, followed by a streak of light illuminating the darkness as it engulfed them.

"The other carriage is only a few minutes behind us, Monsieur Vicomte," François reminded his employer, straightening himself up from his kneeling position beside the buggy. He glanced down at the wheel, stuck in two inches of thick brown mud, and frowned.

Raoul responded with a deep sigh of aggravation, turning his gaze to the horizon and shielding his eyes from the gusts of wind that caused his auburn hair to stand on end. His eyes followed the road, winding back across the fields and disappearing into the patch of trees in the distance. He squinted in concentration, searching for the lights of the other carriage…

"You had better get back inside, monsieur," François piped up, laying his hand gently on the Vicomte's shoulder. "It's going to start raining at any time now…come, we'll wait inside the buggy." Raoul pursed his lips and folded his arms over his chest before acquiescing. François held the carriage door open, and Raoul stepped in, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. Glancing back over his shoulder one last time, François saw a small, flickering light in the distance. "There, sir!" he cried eagerly, pointing down the path.

In a flash, Raoul jumped back out of the buggy, coming to a halt a few yards from the carriage. His coattails fluttered madly in the breeze as he stood in the middle of the road, watching as the approaching horses slowed to a halt behind them. One quick glance at the sinking buggy alerted the driver of the situation. Clutching his top hat securely to his head, he climbed off his post and hurried over to the Vicomte and François.

"Don't you worry, Monsieur le Vicomte," the new driver said. "We'll be on our way shortly…this shouldn't take more than a few minutes." His companion, one of Christine's chambermaids, joined them, peering over their shoulders at the submerged wheel.

"Gilles will have you out of there right quick, sir," she added, patting the driver's broad back and glancing at Raoul as she spoke. "He's a very handy man to have in a tight spot."

"Thank you, Sabine," Raoul murmured offhandedly, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Perhaps you'd like to wait in our carriage while Gilles works, monsieur?" she suggested, taking him by the arm and leading him away. He threw one last gaze behind him, watching as François and Gilles examined his buggy through the darkening shadows.

Taking a seat inside, Raoul cradled his head in his hands, eyes closed. "Oh, Christine…" he murmured quietly to himself, his hair falling down into his face. Another crash of thunder sounded, and a moment later, the rain began, pouring down in buckets. Raoul folded his hands to his forehead and prayed in silence that wherever she was, she was safe.

* * *

"Erik…" 

All he had managed was a simple brush against her lips before she spoke. For a moment, neither of them moved, their mouths hovering mere inches apart. They didn't breathe, they didn't think. Christine bit her lower lip and turned away from him, and with their faces barely touching, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the back of her head against the wall.

"Erik, please…"

He paused, allowing a single breath to caress her cheek. Leaning forwards, he touched his lips to the corner of her pale jaw. "Please…what?" he murmured into her skin.

"Please stop. Please." He did not miss the note of desperation in her voice, a small and pleading whimper that shook him to his very soul. Such innocence, such naivety…

His body, still pushed tightly against her small frame, tensed and straightened before turning to her. "Forgive me, Madame la Vicomtess," he said softly, gazing at her with a strange, unreadable emotion. "I forget my place." Christine heard something in his tone, but she could not for the life of her place it. As soon as he looked away, her hand flew to her quivering mouth, her fingertips lightly touching the place where his lips had been for the briefest of moments. Silently she damned her own skin for tingling as it did.

Erik turned so his back faced her…so she could not see his face. He closed his eyes tightly and covered his mouth with a trembling hand. After a moment he folded his arms behind his back, eyes still closed, and took a deep, tremulous breath. "Forgive me," he breathed again, refusing to look at her. Christine said nothing, her eyes wide and glassy.

Even though she could not be certain, she had the sudden feeling that he had begun to cry.

"Erik," she whispered softly, crossing the space that divided them. Gingerly, she laid her hand on the edge of his arm, feeling the unnatural coldness of his skin creep up into her fingertips. He turned his face to the side, away from her. After a moment of indecision, she turned his cheek with her hand and looked into his eyes. To her surprise, they were not bloodshot, and there were no sign of tears; instead, they were filled to the brim with an incomprehensible sadness and hopelessness swimming in the depth of his golden irises.

Infinity passed between them, a lifetime of unanswered questions posed without a single word. The moment was broken the instant that Christine smoothed back a loose strand of hair from his face…Erik turned instinctively into the gesture, his skin melting into the grooves of her palm. His eyes closed at the tender, precious sensation of her touch, and he allowed the single, welling tear he had been saving to be escape down his uncovered cheek.

Christine hesitated, then pushed herself up onto her toes and pressed her lips to the corner of his eye, the small trickle of water running over her mouth. And for a moment, she believed she had not tasted anything sweeter than the salty savor of his tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered before lowering her heels back to the cold hardwood floor. They stared at each other for a moment; a quiet, unspoken understanding passing between them…one look at her sorrowful, downcast eyes was all he needed for confirmation. Erik's gaze fell to the ground, and he nodded before sweeping past her and heading for the door.

* * *

"That's the place…right up there, monsieur." 

Raoul peered through the thickening clouds and the pounding sheet of rain at the tall, strangely-angled building atop the hill before them. "There?" he asked incredulously through the open window that separated the passenger from the driver. "You allowed my wife to stay _there?"_

"Well, there weren't exactly a lot of choices, sir," François called over the deafening howl of the downpour. "I did the best I could under the circumstances." He pulled the horses up to the right, beginning the climb up to the hotel. Raoul felt the wheels beneath him groan under the strain of the ascent, and he clutched the side of the buggy door tightly with his hand.

"You alerted the Girys of the situation?" he yelled over another burst of thunder, the crash causing the carriage to shudder violently. Rain now fell in drops the size of the buttons on his new jacket, and he stared up through the window at the gathering gloom.

François glanced over his shoulder. "I sent word ahead with a messenger first thing after arriving at the manor, Monsieur Vicomte." He slowed to a halt outside the front entrance of the hotel, and Raoul leapt out of the carriage, barely feeling the pelting raindrops as they fell violently onto his face. He waited impatiently beneath the veranda of the building for François as he hurriedly tied the horses to a post and followed the Vicomte inside.

The first thing Raoul noticed when entering the vicinity was the overwhelming smell of alcohol. He reeled in distaste before glaring down at François who, in turn, shrugged a bit guiltily. Raoul was well aware of how much he was sticking out in this crowd; he noticed on more than once occasion that the eyes of the men and women were following him with calculating precision, watching his every movement.

Amidst the roaring laughter and bouts of drunken argument, Raoul's gaze swept the room with unnerving anxiety. Women with thick, blood red lips smiled invitingly at him while wriggling about in other men's laps, their companions throwing coins on the table as they gambled away their wealth in states of intoxicated stupor. Raoul uncomfortably avoided the stare of the girls and followed his driver, hesitantly pushing his way through the crowd.

"Madame!" François called suddenly, motioning to a woman and pulling Raoul towards the front desk. A short, stern-faced woman turned at his beckoning, a brief instant of unrecognizing confusion lining her countenance. Momentarily her eyes brightened with recollection, and she hurried over to them, smiling widely at the Vicomte.

"Monsieur Vicomte de Chagny! We were expecting you!" she prattled cheerfully, making certain to emphasize his title as she spoke. Out of the corner of his eye, François noticed a tall, raven-haired girl perk up at his name, her gaze instantly drawn to the scene. "The Vicomtess has been doing wonderfully…she's up in her room, if you would like to accompany me in fetching her," she continued enthusiastically, abandoning her post.

"Don't trouble yourself, Madame," murmured a deep, sultry voice. Raoul and François turned on cue to be met with the sight of the woman with black locks. She flashed them both a sickly sweet smile, casting a fleeting, significant look to Madame. "I'd be happy to take them to the Vicomtess. There's no reason for you to desert your customers."

Madame pursed her lips, eyes flashing dangerously. "It's no trouble at all, _Roslin."_ Turning to Raoul, she eagerly took him by the arm and pulled him off towards the East Wing. Raoul shot an expression of complete confusion over his shoulder at François, who shrugged and followed the troupe up the stairs, Roslin following closely behind.

Raoul gazed around at the décor as Madame led him up the stairs, feeling slightly better about the place. The atmosphere had become more like that to which he was accustomed; a lingering scent of perfume and cleanliness filled his nostrils, and he relaxed a bit. "She hasn't had anymore attacks?" he asked Madame as she guided him through the halls.

"Hmm?" she mumbled, only half-listening. "Oh, the Vicomtess? No, no…she's been perfectly well since your driver left. She's an absolutely lovely young woman, Monsieur Vicomte." Coming to a halt outside one of the doors, she pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and, unseen by the others, threw one last meaningful look in Roslin's direction.

Sighing with relief, Raoul smiled gratefully as Madame picked out one of the keys and held it out to the lock. "I want to thank you for everything you've been doing, Mada…"

They were interrupted suddenly by the tall wooden door swinging open on its own accord; Raoul stood in astounded silence, face to face with a man cloaked in shadows and donned in a black cape, a white mask glowing brilliantly from the right side of his face.

* * *

They stared at each other, the loathing evident on both their faces. Raoul's countenance drained of all color, leaving a stark, pale expression of astonishment and hatred. Erik's face, on the other hand, darkened drastically, causing the silver glow of his mask and the gleaming golden hue of his eyes to stand out. His chest heaving dramatically, Raoul's dumbfounded, wide-eyed gaze swept contemptuously over his rival…and only then did Erik realize that the white shirt beneath his cloak was still half unbuttoned. 

With a flash, Raoul's hand flew to his jacket, gripping his revolver with trembling white fingers. Holding the gun out in front of him, he aimed the barrel at the center of Erik's chest.

"Raoul!"

If it was possible, the sound of his wife's voice made his eyes go just a little bit rounder. Glancing over the top of Erik's broad shoulders, he saw Christine standing in the middle of the bedroom, clutching her pink robe fiercely to her chest. Completely ignoring his three companions, who stood in the corridor, studying the scene with equal amounts of bewilderment and incredulity, Raoul jammed the pistol fiercely into Erik's chest.

He breathed deeply through his nose, watching him through narrowed eyes. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull this trigger," he muttered coldly, ramming the silver barrel harder against Erik's torso.

Erik allowed himself to smirk despite the overwhelming urge to wrap his fingers around the Vicomte's neck and squeeze all life from his perfectly groomed body. "It's much easier to make threats when one is not hanging from a noose, is it not, boy?" he hissed back.

Raoul's eyes narrowed into slits, his lips curling back into a sneer. "Raoul, please!" Christine appeared instantly at his side, laying her hand across her husband's arm.

Turning his face to the side, he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. "Sick," he muttered quietly. "They told me you were sick." With his free hand, Raoul ran his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply through his nose. "Do you know how many hours I've spent worrying myself to death about you? And now I find you here with this…this…"

"Monster?" Erik finished for him, eyebrows raised. "Creature? _Thing?"_ He spat the last word out venomously, and Raoul took Christine protectively by the arm. "You needn't worry about your wife's good virtue, monsieur," he murmured darkly, determinedly avoiding Christine's gaze. "Seeing her as the innocent victim in these affairs will certainly ease your undoubtedly distressed conscience…" Erik paused, staring at the Vicomte through the narrow, angled slits of his gleaming eyes. "I assume you remember how effortlessly my influence seems to wrap itself around her naïvely innocent mind."

Images of the performance of _Don Juan_ filled Raoul's mind, and with a low grunt of rage, he threw himself at Erik. Both Christine and François gave a cry of shocked protest, but before either could move, Erik caught him squarely by the neck and pushed him viciously against the wall. For a moment, no one moved; Erik's chest heaved violently with passionate effort, and Raoul's face began to darken to a dangerous shade of crimson.

"Erik, you'll kill him!" Christine gasped, her voice choked with tears and utter horror.

For the first time since her husband had arrived, Erik turned his eyes to her. "Give me a reason not to." Christine gaped at him, her trembling hand caught around her throat. A moment passed, the silence broken only by Raoul's shuddering gasps, and suddenly Erik released him. The moment he was free, Raoul held the revolver up once more, this time poised in the middle of Erik's throat. They regarded each other, and then Erik spoke, his voice low and composed. "You're a fool…but you are brave. A brave fool."

"I'd only be a fool if I failed to kill you here, today, right now," Raoul replied quietly.

Erik let himself laugh, an eerie, discomforting chuckle escaping his lips. "Shouldn't you wait until I turn around, monsieur?" he asked softly. "That is, of course, how you would kill a monster…by shooting him in the back." Raoul did not reply, and after a moment, Erik started for the door.

"Wait…"

Whirling around, Erik held the back of his hand in the air, preparing to strike the small, pale face that swam in his sight below him. Christine flinched, her eyes wide with stunned silence, as she stared at his hand poised above her. Erik was completely still for a moment, and then, ever so slowly, he lowered his hand to her cheek. Without touching her, he swept his fingers by his face, instead caressing the air beside her. Clenching his hand into a fist, he lowered his arm. Then, after something passed between their locked gazes, Erik pulled his cloak around himself and disappeared out the door, a mere black shadow.

Those left inside the room were motionless, staring at each other speechlessly. It was only then that they heard the inhuman cry of rage and desperation sound from the hall outside the doorway.

* * *

Black, uncontrolled despair seemed to have replaced the blood that pumped through his veins; the edges of his vision were lined in thick, oblique shadows, and he threw his cape behind his back as he flew through the halls. He would have liked to die right then… 

It was ironic, really: How many times had his fingers wrapped around the trigger of the wooden-handled pistol he kept locked away in his cabin in the woods? How many times had he held the barrel squarely against his temple, or occasionally the soft spot between his jaw and his throat? Through closed eyes he saw the noose he had set up so many times swinging back and forth, back and forth. Yet the moment his muscles twitched to set off the revolver, the moment he placed his neck within the lasso, it had been _her voice_ he heard in his mind… And that was what had stopped him.

But now, it was because of her he longed to get his hands on something, anything, that could alleviate just a bit of the pain; a release, even for just a moment.

It was the look in her eyes when she gazed upon her husband…that was what did it. Even when he had stood behind the statue of Apollo and listened with growing sorrow as the two had proclaimed their love for one another, he had not felt such a wanton hopelessness burst within his chest. No, the way she had looked at him just moments before…

He supposed that somewhere in the deep regions of his mind, he had believed that maybe she thought of him, even for just a fraction of the time she had crossed his. But when he saw the utter devotion in her gaze, he knew…he knew she had left everything behind in those godforsaken cellars in Paris. In those moments, he realized he had as well.

With dawning comprehension, Erik found himself standing alone in the middle of the lobby. Thunder crashed around him, but he did not notice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a head of long brunette hair, and reason fled. The girl turned her face, and some part of him knew that it was not Christine, that she was simply the woman who had hair like Christine…but Erik didn't care. The shadows around his eyes burst into flames, consuming his thoughts, and in just a few strides, he caught the girl by the upper arm. She looked up at him with surprise lining her small face, but when she saw the gleam in his gaze, her expression melted into one of fearful shock. Fingers digging into her skin, he heaved her against himself.

"Monsieur!"

He heard Madame's voice, but he did not acknowledge her. Instead, he hauled the girl to her feet and began pulling her violently towards the stairs of the west wing. "Monsieur, what…?"

He turned his face towards Madame, shooting daggers through her with burning eyes. His golden irises had exploded into a burst of bright, maniacal yellow, and Madame flinched at the sight of him, taking a few steps backwards and falling into a chair, her gaze unwavering from his face. Jaw clenched tightly, he pointed at her challengingly, as if daring her to take one more step towards him. His shaking hand curled into a fist, and he disappeared around the corner, leaving Madame alone in the foyer.

Erik stumbled up the steps, dragging the girl behind him. Rationale had long since fled…the girl he had abducted was Christine, and now he pulled her through the labyrinth of his home, her cries of protest all too familiar to his ears. The door to the room at the end of the hall flew open with one forceful push, and he shoved the girl inside.

The force of his hands sent her sprawling to the floor, and when he turned to face her, she saw the fixated gleam in his eyes. She shrieked uncontrollably as he approached her, his strides so long that he only needed to take two steps before he grasped her by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. Only when his abnormally long fingers began to claw desperately at her clothing did she manage to fight back, beating her tiny fists against his chest.

He ignored her fierce struggles; his hands had minds of their own, ripping apart the seams of her garments with an animal-like strength. Teeth bared savagely, he gave one mighty wrench and her dress fell to the floor in a bundle around her ankles. His fingers wove into the material of her corset, and as she stumbled backwards in her hysterical, frenzied attempt to get herself away from him, her undergarments were torn from her small body, and she landed, naked, at the foot of his unmade bed. Clutching her arms to her chest, she huddled away from him, her breaths so sporadic she had to gasp for air.

With a low grunt of effort, he pulled his own shirt from his body and advanced towards her, torso heaving. She stared up at him, eyes wide and glassy and filled with a childlike fear, and he stopped a mere inch from her. He saw the outline of his body in her shining bottle-green eyes, and realization seeped into his mind. Slowly, he fell to his knees before her, his gaze locked on her face. She shuddered uncontrollably and recoiled when he hesitantly touched her hand. Never before had she felt anything so unnaturally cold…

"Christine…" he whispered, staring at her. "Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry… Christine…" He reached out to her face, but she flinched at the prospect of his touch, and he withdrew his hand. "I'm so sorry…" The fear on her face was almost unbearable, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it softly, apologetically. The girl turned her face away from him, shielding her eyes, and horrorstruck understanding began to dawn on him.

Slowly, he reached his fingers to his face, feeling the uneven grooves and blistered flesh of his right cheek. His mask… Clutching his cloak to his face, he looked around wildly for the white piece of leather. He lurched backwards, getting to his feet as his eyes searched the room for his mask. Glancing back at the girl who had drawn her hands to her eyes in order to shield herself, he reached out desperately for the door and stumbled out of the room.

Erik flew down the stairs, his cape waving wildly behind him as he landed forcefully on the ground level. Immediately he felt the eyes on him, and grasping his coat to his cheek, he headed for the front entrance. Just as his hand wrapped around the knob, he heard, "Monsieur!"

Roslin hurried towards his turned back, her jewelry clinking against each other as she followed him. Ignoring her, he opened the door and stepped outside. She arrived at the entrance moments later, peering out into the clouded darkness. Taking one last glance over his shoulder, their gazes crossed, and he watched as her eyes widened in shock.

A bolt of lightning illuminated his face, and in the following instants of complete darkness, he disappeared into the night.

Mouth agape, Roslin turned back to the foyer, eyes unblinking. Hurrying back to Madame, she did not notice the man sitting alone in the corner at the piano, paging through the loose sheets of _Don Juan Triumphant,_ a broad smile appearing across his face.

_**End of Part I.**_


	9. Hell is an Obsession

**A/N:**_ Fondest greetings once again, good readers. Just a few notes- I am still deciding on whether or not I should combine this storyline with another I had been planning…if I do, this will be a bit longer than I had originally intended. …A **lot** longer…_

_Secondly, half of my pen name will be coming into effect in Part II (but not this chapter!), so the pseudonym won't be as random as it appears._

_And no, I'm not bringing vampires into the plot. Sorry. That's reserved for Erik: The Vampire Hunter (awesome phic…go read it!)._

_

* * *

_

_Now, no matter where I am,  
No matter what I do,  
I see your face appearing  
Like an unexpected song…  
An unexpected song  
That only we are hearing…_

_**Unexpected Song **by Andrew Lloyd Webber_

_

* * *

_

**_Part II: _HELL IS AN OBSESSION**

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* * *

**

_Two weeks after the first (and last) performance of Don Juan Triumphant_

_Paris, France  
_

The soft, wispy billows of gentle smoke wafted lethargically towards the ceiling, gathering in mellow gray clouds around the miniature chandelier that hung rather garishly in the center of the room. As they drifted lazily across the scene, a hand sliced through the smoke, curling itself into a fist moments before it hit the desk below with bone-rattling force.

"What the hell do you mean, _the inspections have been cancelled?"_ roared the owner of the fist, clutching a thick cigar in his free fingers, his face darkening to an angry shade of scarlet.

The uniformed man standing in the doorway cast a quick glance at his partner before taking another step forwards. "I'm sorry, monsieur le Baron, but we simply have no further leads. My men have torn the place apart…they've searched every nook and cranny of the cellars, but after the incident two days ago, quite frankly they don't have the morality to keep up a futile search." The inspector spread his gloved hands wide, watching the Baron anxiously. "There's nothing we can do about it now, sir… I am sorry."

The Baron said nothing, his arms squared tensely against his mahogany desk. After a moment, he turned his gaze to the officer, his eyes flashing dangerously. With a quick wave of his hand, the inspector sent his companion out of the room, understanding the Baron's wish for privacy by the glint in his glance. Once the two men were alone, the inspector's stance loosened just a bit, his shoulders becoming less rigid than they had been only moments before. Taking a few strides farther into the room, he removed his hat and waited.

"To which 'incident' were you referring, Gringoire?" the Baron queried thoughtfully, his face startlingly expressionless as he spoke, replacing the cigar between his lips.

Inspector Gringoire looked down at his hands, picking absently at his fingernails. "Surely you heard about the accident, Baron?" he mentioned softly, eyes cast briefly towards the imposing man before him. When the Baron remained silent, Gringoire continued. "Two days ago one of my men happened across a room in the cellars. It was located near the entrance of another route into the basements, a path that had been rendered useless recently due to…the events we were investigating." Something flickered dangerously behind the Baron's stormy gray irises, but Gringoire pretended not to notice.

"Go on," the Baron urged quietly, all the while adjusting a small picture frame on his desk.

Gringoire cleared his throat. "It was a small chamber, no bigger than the room in which we are now standing. But the walls…the walls were plated with thick glass, mirrors, to be exact." The Baron raised his eyebrows at this, his mouth remaining closed. "Blakeney—he's the man we lost—was always a bit too curious for his own good, you see…wandered in, couldn't find his way out. There was no door on the inside, so…" Gringoire paused, his fingers resting on his chin, his bright blue eyes clouded over in thought.

"He died of heat exhaustion, then?" the Baron interjected, setting the portrait back on the table and glancing up at the inspector with professional indifference. "The mirrors must have…"

"Oh no, monsieur le Baron," Gringoire said, shaking his head. "No, if it had truly been just an 'accident,' then perhaps my men would still be willing to go down into the Garnier's cellars."

The Baron sat back in his seat, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyebrows raised. "Then what, pray tell, happened to the man, Gringoire? You told me you hadn't found our man…"

Gringoire held up his hand, cutting off the Baron almost apologetically. "Of course not, sir. You would be the first one informed if we had, I can assure you. No, Blakeney hanged himself, you see." He received merely a steady, blank stare, and the inspector hurriedly continued with his explanation, eager to fill the discomfited silence. "The room…it was very peculiar…" he murmured thoughtfully, unconsciously shuddering. He turned back to the Baron. "Almost as if it had been designed with fates such as Blakeney's in mind. There was a tree in the middle of the room, a very strange tree…"

"A tree?" the Baron repeated incredulously, Gringoire now the object of his full attention.

The inspector nodded quickly in confirmation. "A twisted metal tree, with a rope noose hanging from it…" He shook his head suddenly, as if physically clearing his thoughts. "As you can imagine, it was somewhat difficult, if not damn impossible, to get the rest of my men down into those godforsaken chambers the next day. Stories circulated, and now, after two weeks of unproductive searching…" Gringoire sighed dejectedly, running his short, sausage-like fingers through the wavy blonde locks atop his head. "Well, to be perfectly honest, Monsieur le Baron, they just don't have the heart for it."

"Has the case been officially closed yet?" the Baron asked softly, his gaze faraway as he stared through the carpeting, his large hand resting gently at the base of his neck.

"The captain did it himself this afternoon…signed the paper and everything, monsieur."

A moment of contemplative silence passed in which Gringoire studied the Baron with unblinking, somber eyes. Then: "So this is it, Inspector? This is the end of all our work?"

The inspector nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so, sir. I wish the results could have been more to your liking, but…" He frowned, sighing. "Some things are just not meant to be."

Unbeknownst to Gringoire, a scowl was working its way up onto the Baron's turned face. Hands locked in his lap, he said, "I bid you a good day, Inspector Gringoire."

Understanding his cue to leave, the inspector backed up towards the door, his feathered hat clutched tightly in his gnarled fingers. Just as his hand curled around the doorknob, he paused hesitantly, glancing at the Baron's silhouette. "Monsieur le Baron," he called. The Baron remained motionless, his back facing Gringoire. "Sir, I truly am sorry for your lo-"

"I believe I just bid you _good day."_

Gringoire swept out the door, closing it behind himself with a faint click. Turning to proceed down the hall, he narrowly avoided a near-collision with his partner, who stood anxiously on the other side of the doorway. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…" Gringoire breathed, clutching his heaving chest in sheer alarm. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Portarles!"

Officer Portarles grinned apologetically, sweeping off his hat and running a chubby hand across his glistening forehead. "My apologies, monsieur Inspector, my apologies."

Pursing his lips, Gringoire took him by the arm and glanced around for any unwanted servants hovering about the scene. "Eavesdropping on any aristocrat is a bad idea, _especially_ when the said aristocrat is the Baron de Tournay," he hissed in a low voice.

Portarles waved away the inspector's concerns with a light chuckle. "It wasn't as if he said anything of notice, Claude," he replied. "The man barely spoke a word during the entire conversation… If I hadn't heard him grumble a few times, I would have thought you were talking to yourself!"

Gringoire frowned. "The Baron isn't like most of the other nobles around here, Pierre," he whispered anxiously, casting his gaze once more around the corridor. "I've known the man a great deal longer than yourself, and on more than one occasion, I've found myself worrying about his…mental state." He tugged absently at a piece of his honey-colored beard with his thumb and index finger. "The Baron has a lot on his mind…"

They were interrupted by an earsplitting crash that exploded from inside the Baron's chambers. After a moment of stunned silence, Gringoire quickly pulled Portarles by the arm down the hall and out the front door without so much as a look over his shoulder.

* * *

The Baron Armand Marquis de Tournay stared blankly at the pile of broken glass and bronze framework that lay in a heap on the floor near the wall. _When did that happen?_ His eyes wandered over the spot on his desk that now sat, quite empty, between two other picture frames, and he nodded to himself in affirmation. With a deep sigh, the Baron pulled himself from his chair, his six-foot frame lumbering across the circular room to the mound of debris.

He knelt beside the various shards, picking up the glass piece by piece with thick yet nimble fingers and laying them delicately in his free palm. His eyes were drawn back to the small portrait that lay, face up, on the ground beside him, and the raging despair returned to his veins in a rush. It took him a few moments to notice the blood seeping through the cracks and crevices of his now-clasped fist, oblivious to the shards of glass that had been lodged into his skin. Cursing to himself, he unclenched his hand and stared down at the tiny pools of crimson, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a small white handkerchief.

His gaze flickered back to the pretty young face that smiled up at him from the ground, the gray eyes forever still and unblinking. Despite the colorless hue of the picture, the Baron could almost picture the brilliant flash of strawberry blonde hair sparkling brightly in the sunlight, her peach-colored lips drawn into a sweet, innocent smile.

Armand de Tournay wiped his hand over his face, his salt-and-pepper moustache bristling against his fingers. His deep gray eyes darkened until they were almost the shade of charcoal, mouth twisting back into a sneering grimace. If the police were incapable of finding the infamous Opera Ghost, perhaps it was time a new investigation was begun.

After all, once he was found, there were methods of death even the authorities were hesitant to use.

* * *

_One week after the Vicomtesse's return to the de Chagny Estate _

_Lyons, France_

"Sabine, will you please fetch my husband and inform him that it's twenty minutes past suppertime?" The small, mouse-faced girl nodded to the Vicomtesse, picking up her plain brown skirts and scurrying through the doorway of the vaulted-ceiling dining room.

Christine de Chagny stared down at her plate of untouched roasted duck, her fingers pressed against her temples. Truth be told, food was the last thing she wanted at the moment; her stomach felt as if it had been packed with rocks. Biting her lower lip, she picked up her wine glass, still filled to the brim, and brought it to her mouth. The deep burgundy liquid coated her throat like oil as she drank, taking very unladylike gulps of the wine.

The door to the dining room opened, and Sabine reentered, followed shortly by Raoul. Christine placed the cup gingerly back onto the table and gave her husband a small, sincere smile. "You're late for dinner again," she reminded him as he took his seat opposite her.

The corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly, echoing a reflection of a smile. "I'm sorry, Christine…work," Raoul explained, his gaze dropping to the course that sat before him.

She nodded in understanding, trailing her utensil inattentively through the food on her platter. "More paperwork, I presume?" she asked offhandedly, glancing at him from beneath her brow. Raoul simply nodded as he chewed a mouthful of duck. She gazed at him before turning her eyes back to her food. "…Will you be turning into bed late again like last night, Raoul?" she inquired softly, staring determinedly at the silver fork in her fingers.

He paused, looking up at his wife with an unreadable expression lining his face. After a moment, Christine met his gaze, her eyes unblinking. They stared at each other briefly before Raoul returned to his meal. "I suppose that depends…" he answered vaguely.

She continued to watch him vigilantly, lips parted. "Depends on what?" she questioned.

Raoul opened his mouth to answer, but after meeting his wife's stare, decided against it. Instead, he scooped up the last bit of his food with his spoon and chewed it thoughtfully, glancing at the half-empty glass of wine beside him. He wiped his lips with the cloth napkin he had folded in his lap and excused himself from the table, nodding in appreciation to Sabine.

Christine looked after her husband's retreating back, the stones settling once more in her belly.

* * *

Placing her hairbrush back down onto her dresser, Christine looked up at her reflection warily, her fingers trailing across the pasty whiteness of her cheeks. Though she had always had a naturally light complexion, lately her skin had been so pale it seemed to be translucent under the right lighting. Her fingers traveled to the corners of her eyes, and she absently rubbed her index fingers against her temples as she stared into her own irises.

Was the rhythmic flickering of the gentle candlelight beside her playing tricks with her weary, aching mind, or had her deep mahogany eyes taken on a rather golden hue?

She squeezed her eyelids shut, her hands resting on her cheeks, and sighed deeply. When she allowed herself to once again look into the mirror, the first aspect of herself to catch her glance was the darkness of the bags beneath her eyes. Black-violet skin sagged beneath her lids, the distinction painstakingly noticeable against her ethereally white cheeks.

_No wonder my husband avoids me like the plague at night,_ Christine thought to herself. _I look like a ghost…I look like Death itself…_ She took a deep breath, eyes drifting shut once more, and leaned her slender, elegant neck against the soft velvet backing of her dark indigo chair. Despite her appearance, she knew that it was not the reason Raoul had resolutely shied away from their bed during the past week. No, the explanation was made scrupulously clear to her each and every time their gazes crossed. Something changed subtly behind his clear cerulean eyes when he met her glance…

From the moment they were left alone in her hotel room, Christine was well aware that Raoul had not believed Erik's story of seduction. It was obvious in the minute hesitation before he had enclosed her in his arms. And once they were home, the hesitation had not vanished… Of course, he still placed his fond kisses atop her head and on her forehead, he still held her when she wordlessly expressed her need for his embrace.

Silently Christine cursed herself for her own incompetence and pitiful weakness. There was no doubt in her mind that Raoul had shouldered responsibilities no man should ever have to face, and therefore he was one of, if not the best, man in all of France; there was no doubt in her mind that he loved her and would do or give anything for the sake of her happiness.

There was also no doubt that he could never claim her whole heart, as it had been torn in two.

She jumped when the door to the master bedroom opened with a low creak. Christine turned to see the figure of her husband standing in the doorway, his eyes locked on her face. After a moment he gave her a little smile and stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him. "Hello," he said softly, taking a few short strides towards her.

"No more paperwork?" Christine asked slowly, rising to her feet with nimble grace.

Raoul shook his head, his gaze flowing gently over his wife. "No more paperwork."

A couple instants of contemplative silence passed between them before Raoul closed the space that separated them and took her petite, delicate hands in his own. "I love you," he murmured simply, his crystalline sapphire eyes sharp and clear with solemnity.

Christine nodded, her gaze falling to her bare feet. "I know," she whispered softly.

He laid her hands at her side and turned away. She watched his retreating back as he headed for his closet, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Wiping them away determinedly, she pulled back the covers of their bed and sat down on the edge of the downy feather mattress, tucking her knees up beneath her chin. After a moment she stretched out on the blanket and pulled the sheets over herself, burying her head in her pillow.

It was a few minutes before she heard the soft moan of additional weight being added to the bed. Raoul climbed in beside her and blew out the candle that sat on the table next to him. They lay side by side, each lost in their own thoughts, before Christine readjusted herself so she was facing her husband. He glanced over at her and smiled gently.

Christine did not smile back. Instead, with a stoic expression on her face, she leaned over and placed her lips on the small sliver of skin exposed by his nightshirt. Raoul blinked, his eyes following her as she edged closer, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. Her mouth moved steadily against his neck, traveling up until she reached his jaw line. Tracing his chin with her kisses, Christine settled herself on top of her husband.

Raoul watched her in mute surprise; Christine had always been the follower in bed, always going along with whatever he began, her eyes wide with innocence. As he gazed up at her tonight, however, he saw her look was of anything _but_ innocence. She sat up abruptly, her legs straddling his torso, and she allowed her fingers to dance carefully across his collar, playing with the buttons of his shirt. Her hands moved down his body slowly, precisely, until his nightshirt was open completely. Without breaking the connection of their glances, Raoul shrugged off the white shirt, propping himself up on his elbows.

Her fingers did not stop there; grasping the curve of his abdomen, she suddenly ripped the buttons of his pants from their holes, easing his trousers down to his knees. It was only then that Raoul's hands came alive; he found the thin strings of her nightgown and fumbled with them, smiling in triumph when he felt skin against skin. Pulling the soft white lace away from her body, he pressed his lips to the smooth tautness of her stomach, his fingers wrapping tightly around her hips as she began to rotate slowly on his waist.

Christine's body tensed for only a few seconds when he found her, her nails digging viciously into his shoulders. Raoul bit his lip, frowning in concentration, not even noticing the flashing, fiery light that began to take over Christine's eyes. She gazed down upon him, her mouth drawn into a tight line, and met his glance boldly. Christine smiled to herself as his eyes melted from icy blue to smoldering amber, glowing golden from behind his mask.

* * *

They lay on their backs in the darkness, both awake but neither willing to break the stillness. Finally, Raoul turned over on his side, facing his wife. "Christine…?" he began slowly, his eyes focused piercingly on her face. She turned her head to the side, meeting his gaze.

"Hmm?"

A moment of uncertain, tentative hesitation, then: "Do you still think about him?"

She knew very well who 'he' was. Contemplating her answer thoughtfully, she replied, "Yes."

"Often?"

Her pause was longer this time, and she glanced away from his intense stare. "Yes."

Raoul settled over onto his back, hands folded neatly on his stomach. "Do you think about him while we…?"

The faltering in her response was so brief that her husband almost failed to catch it. "Of course not, Raoul. How can you even ask that?" He considered her and nodded, his countenance void of expression, before rolling over onto his other side so that his back faced her.

"Of course not…"


	10. A Winged Shadow

**A/N:** _Can it be?_

_  
Can it be KT's update?_

_  
Bra-va!_

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* * *

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_And you think you see the silhouette…  
A dream that you can't quite remember,  
But a face you can't forget…_

_**Woman in White **by Andrew Lloyd Webber_

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* * *

_

**A WINGED SHADOW**

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* * *

**

_The blackness that so easily pervaded his sight now acted as a blinder as he stumbled away from the building on the hill. His cape was wrapped tightly around his torso, his chest bare but his mind completely oblivious. The shadows enveloped him in the embrace for which he had longed throughout his childhood…his entire life, in fact, until…_

_Biting wind nipped at his uncovered face, but in the darkness, exposure mattered little to him. The coldness was multiplied a hundredfold when the breeze hit the soft trails of tears that spilt down his gaunt cheeks. His steps were long and unsteady, and his raven hair blew aimlessly across his brilliantly glowing golden eyes shining like pinpricks in the night. His gaze was vague and unfocused, the world around him fading into oblivion…_

_His mind failed to react even as the large, iron-like arms closed around his body, the butt of a revolver swinging down from out of nowhere and colliding with the back of his skull._

_

* * *

_

Christine awoke with a start, her body drawing into an upright position as she blinked her eyes rapidly, squinting through the thin gauze of the bed curtains. She glanced to her right, her gaze falling upon the empty space beside her. A gentle indentation on the mattress was all that was left of her husband's time spent in their divan.

The thick oak door of the master bedroom opened, and Sabine stepped inside, her skirts gathered in her arms as she tiptoed over to the Vicomtesse. Peering inside anxiously, the maid's face brightened when she saw Christine had already awake on her own accord.

"Good day to you, Madame la Vicomtesse," Sabine said, pulling back the curtains of the bed widely. "The Vicomte left a few minutes before you awoke…business, it seems." She bustled around the room, tucking various garments into drawers and straightening picture frames on the walls. "He said he would be back this evening…around suppertime."

Christine nodded mutely, arching her back like a cat and stifling a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Nearly noontime, Madame," the chambermaid replied, bustling over to the door. She paused, her body positioned only half within the bedroom, before turning and calling softly, "It appears it was a long night all around; the Vicomte woke only an hour ago, and he's normally up at the crack of dawn!" Christine turned to Sabine sharply, only to find the door swinging shut.

Untangling herself from the sheets, Christine dangled her legs over the side of the mattress for a moment before standing and heading for her closet. She removed a cream-colored housecoat from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, her bare feet slapping the cold wooden floor with hollow sounds as she proceeded for the door. Her hand rested on the bronze doorknob, but she paused.

Christine glanced out the large bay window, a single branch of the cherry tree rubbing gently against the pane. A tiny bird hopped sporadically along the limb, its head moving from side to side as it peered through the glass. Rays of light danced across its glossy brown feathers, its beetle black eyes sparkling. It plucked a berry from its stem and fluttered away suddenly, its silhouette illuminated against the sun. Pressing her hand to the window, Christine's gaze fell upon the people that roamed the streets of Lyons, the women carrying parasols and clinging to the arms of their husbands as they browsed the small shops.

Hesitating for only a moment, she flung off her housecoat, the soft lace landing in a heap on the hardwood floor. She opened her wardrobe and removed a bright white outing gown, a pair of sturdy, comfortable shoes, and a wide-brimmed sun-hat with a single red ribbon hanging loosely in the back. Holding the dress up to herself, she gazed into her mirror.

Perhaps the day would not be a waste after all.

* * *

Christine looked up just in time to see a round, fat raindrop land with a soft _plop_ on the tip of her nose. Pursing her lips, she glared up at the thick gray clouds that coated the once-cerulean sky, eyes narrowed angrily. The air was dense and heavy, hanging over her like an impenetrable fog and causing her meticulously arranged hair to stick to her forehead and temples. 

Blinking away the beads of sweat that dripped into her eyes, she hoisted her bags higher from the ground and continued down the cobblestone sidewalk, her heels clicking against the walkway. Christine glanced across the street and watched as a man hurried alongside his wife who, in turn, smiled graciously up at him, his umbrella held above her head as they strode along.

Stopping beneath the porch of a flower shop, Christine set her belongings down on an empty table and collapsed into a small chair that stood outside the door. Resting her elbows on her knees in a very unladylike manner, she pulled off her long white gloves and began to massage her throbbing temples. Thunder sounded suddenly from the horizon, and she flinched at the noise, looking up just in time to see a streak of light momentarily illuminate the sky. The heavens erupted into a flash of white and yellow before dimming back to their blackish tides, and she felt another drop of water fall onto her shoulder.

Looking up at the roof that sheltered the front of the store, she saw a tiny hole positioned directly above her head. Sighing, Christine moved her chair a few inches to the right. She gazed out into the streets swarming with carriages and pedestrians fleeing towards the nearest refuge in fear of the approaching storm as the sunlight faded as if night was dawning.

The clock tower chimed the five o'clock hour, and Christine's eyes drifted towards the rolling countryside visible through the narrow gateway of Lyons. The grass rustled against the humid breeze, and another clap of thunder ripped through the skies. Absently she bit her fingernails, her glance vague and unfocused. Raoul would be arriving home soon; he would expect her to be there upon his return. As the thought passed through her mind, she found herself remaining in her seat, motionless. She sighed quietly.

Her gaze fell upon the window of the flower shop, the only source of color in a scene whose brightness was rapidly melting from view. The wind whipped her long chocolate curls against her face, and she clutched her hat to her head as she stared through the glass. She felt her heart skip a beat when she noticed a single red rose lying off to the side of the arrangement…a rose with an ebony ribbon tied delicately around its twisted green stem. The breath caught in her throat, and Christine rose quickly from her seat and gathered her packages into her arms. Without looking back, she started off down the road.

A raindrop fell into her eye, and she blinked it away as her pace quickened. Somewhere close by, a horse whinnied fretfully. Her strides grew longer as yet another peal of thunder shook her surroundings, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Within a few moments, she found herself practically running down the sidewalk, hurrying past the people of Lyons and clutching her bags to her chest. Peering out from beneath her eyelids, she watched as a large, burly man as if in slow motion walked directly into her path.

Her hands flew out to catch her fall, her belongings scattering across the cobblestone. The wide brimmed hat was whisked away in a gust of wind, and she watched helplessly as it was carried away into the approaching darkness. Muttering curses to herself, she began to gather her things into her arms, watching as the large man disappeared into the crowd. A carriage flew by her, mere inches from her face, and a moment later she was drenched by a wave of water that exploded from beneath its wheels as it passed over a large puddle. Furiously she looked up at the buggy as it drove by her…

…And froze.

The face behind the glass was unmistakable… No one in the world had such a face…

The burning yellow eyes were strangely dull and lifeless; they stared past her and into infinity. His long black hair, matted and dirty, hung over the marred flesh of the right half of his face. The moment took a lifetime…she watched mutely as he disappeared into the darkness. In the last instant before he was gone, she saw his gaze flicker back upon her, his eyes illuminated with an unreadable expression as the recognition became apparent.

The connection of their stares was broken by a flash of brilliance that ignited the sky. The carriage vanished into the shadows, and Christine was left on her knees on the corner of the sidewalk, her shaking white hand caught around the base of her pale throat. A booming echo resonated through the streets, and a moment later, a sheet of rain engulfed her.

* * *

_He had been abandoned on the vague emptiness between lifeless oblivion and reality. A steady throbbing reverberated through him, and he realized it was his own heartbeat. The pain had taken on a steady rhythm as well, pulsing through his limbs and in his chest._

_His mind was hazy, as if he were living in a dream…perhaps a nightmare. Blackness surrounded him, and when he tried to take comfort within it, he found himself yearning for the light._

_Strange._

_Sometimes he heard music…both sweet and demonic. When he felt a disruption from the pain that coursed through him, he could almost distinguish the crystalline sound of a familiar voice, gentle and soothing to both his ears and the rest of his body. The dreams were then interrupted by screams of the past, writhing and twisting from his memory into his consciousness. If he had been able, he would have lifted his trembling hands to his head and clawed ferociously, desperately at the sides of his face… But even if he had had the strength to do so, his arms were chained to his sides with heavy manacles._

_The visions were something else entirely… While the sounds were obviously either heaven-sent or spawn of the Devil, the images that flooded his mind were contorted into apparitions that left him weak with longing and tear-stricken with disillusionment. Porcelain faces with wide honey brown eyes…perfect lips painted in crimson…_

_And one that was more prominent than all the rest: A figure kneeling on the ground, flawlessness radiating from its mere presence… She watched him in mute astonishment as shadows crowded around her, the sudden rain framing her innocence…a vision of an angel._

"Wake up!"

He was jolted by a sharp pain that met the center of his chest. Ignoring the fire that licked his skin, he turned his face to the side, allowing his hair to cover his face. He blinked rapidly, forcing his muddled mind into reality. The men had drugged him using some remedy with which he was unfamiliar. His inexperience with such a concoction surprised him; his knowledge of medicinal tonics was quite extensive…

The thought was interrupted by a fist as it crashed into his jaw. His face was whipped to the side, and the metallic taste of blood met his tongue. Swallowing, he looked up expressionlessly at his assailant for a moment before glancing around at his surroundings.

He was sitting in an old wooden chair in the middle of a small, dank room. There was a circular window to his right, and a glowing orange moon glimmered at him from behind thick storm clouds. His hands had been tied behind his back, and his shirt had been ripped from his body. Chest heaving, he returned his gaze to his captor. The shadows hid the man's face, but the moon illuminated his wide shoulders, lean chest, and thick legs.

Erik allowed his head to hang so his chin rested on his chest. A moment of tense stillness passed between them before the man grabbed him roughly by the hair and forced his face up. They stared at each other, grim disgust lining his countenance while Erik remained stoically unresponsive and impassive. His eyes were dark and faded, his eyelids half closed.

"So you're the man?" the man asked, his deep voice rich with a thick foreign accent.

Erik said nothing.

"You're wondering why you're here?"

Silence.

The man seemed to be irritated by his lack of a reaction. Reaching into his back pocket, he removed a small blade and held it to a point directly beneath Erik's jaw line. "Someone has quite the grudge against you, my friend. Perhaps it has something to do with your face…" He traced a thin line along the grooves of the deformity with his knife. "But I know not." Smirking, he watched the small stream of crimson flow through the cracks of Erik's skin.

Erik remained motionless.

"I'd ask what you did to this man, but I think it is safe to say I will receive no answer." He pursed his lips. "My orders were strict…I will not kill you. I have nothing against you, my friend…although your face is truly…unique." A drop of blood fell from Erik's chin onto his chest. The man poked it with the tip of his blade, and another bubble of scarlet formed on his skin. It broke and trickled down between the hardened lines of his torso.

"Perhaps you would appreciate it if I made you more symmetrical." He grinned beneath a thick beard of curly black hair. "Would you like that?" Erik's eyes were locked on a point somewhere over the man's back. He didn't flinch when he felt the edge of the knife glide gracefully along the left side of his face. The cuts were not very deep…on the contrary, they were mere scratches.

"I heard of a man in Paris who had a face much like yours," the man murmured, returning the knife to its sheath and stepping back, much like an artist admiring his work. "He killed some people, kidnapped a girl… Could you be one in the same, my friend?" He arched an eyebrow. "In my business, I have encountered much worse crimes than yours. And yet your case caused so much commotion…it confuses me still. Only four or so were killed in your…what was it, a chandelier crashing?" The man threw his head back and let out a loud, barking laugh. "In all my years, I have never heard of such a thing."

Erik looked away.

His tormentor pretended not to notice. "And the kidnapping… I saw a picture of the girl in the newspaper, my friend, and I will be the first to tell you, I can hardly blame you." A muscle in Erik's neck tightened. "I would have dropped a chandelier on my own brother to get her out of her dress and into my…"

With a furious growl, Erik ripped his wrists from their restraints and snapped the ropes from his body as easily as if they were threads. His captor stumbled backwards in surprise as Erik rose to his full height. He was easily three or four inches taller, and he watched as the man's eyes grew wide. In just two strides, Erik caught him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. _"Do not…speak of her that way!"_ he hissed.

It took a few moments to notice the sharp pain that radiated from his thigh. Looking down, he saw the small blade sticking out of his upper leg. He looked up just in time to see the butt of a revolver once again swinging down from above him and crashing into his skull.

Darkness met him, and he greeted it warmly.


End file.
